Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was something particularly intriguing about Earth Crowley realized a few centuries ago.

Unlike other demons, who only periodically came to the surface to involve themselves in human affairs, he had more freedom of choice among humanity than he ever did below them. Or, at the very least, he had the illusion of freedom and choice. It was due to this illusion that he rather liked what Earth offered. However, while he’d never admit it to Aziraphale or himself, he still questioned whether any of his actions were his own, or if they had already been decided as according to the “Great Plan.”

Crowley had plenty of theories regarding said Plan - most of which he was wrong about. However, he was entirely right about one variable in all of them. Choice.

For example: Crowley, the angel, always had two choices, no matter what Crowley, the demon, believed. In this life Crowley, the angel, chose temptation. Yet in another world, Crowley, the angel, chose another path. And from that path sprung many more. The option of choice led Crowley, angel and demon, through many lives. The choices of this demon-Crowley led him to this precise moment: going seventy-six miles an hour down a cobblestone road on a mild night, the Antichrist in a wicker basket in his back seat, and Bohemian Rhapsody once again on the radio.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Was muttered through gritted teeth, “Why did it have to be me?”

Because you decided to make them love you down there, came a little voice from the back of his mind. Once, he called it conscious. Now, he calls it Aziraphale (Minor).

The task was easy enough: deliver the Antichrist to the little church down the road, watch the child until his eleventh birthday, trigger Armageddon, win the inevitable war to follow. All under one condition: don’t fuck any of it up. Easy .

It’s with a labored breath that he pulls the Bentley over just before the final turn around the hill. And it’s on this side of this road that this demon-Crowley makes a critical decision.

In another life, he makes a different choice. In this other life, he may follow directions perfectly, delivering the child to the proper room with the proper corrupt family, and Armageddon goes off without a hitch. In another other life, perhaps he arrives at the church a little too late, loses the child, and Armageddon only nearly happens.

But in this life, Crowley gets an idea. It’s a bad idea, even by hell’s standards. Thus, it’s one of his best.

He shifts gears, cranks the radio loud enough to drown out the cries from the backseat and tires screeching against cobble road as he turns the Bentley around and drives straight towards Soho.

~

It’s approximately twenty-eight minutes until Monday’s evening becomes Tuesday’s morning when the silence filling the bookshop is interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone.

Aziraphale has half the mind to ignore the caller; it’s not that he disapproves of curious customers after closing hours, just ones which call this late and require him to set aside his current novel.

Hello, thank you for calling. I’m afraid we’re closed, if you have any inquiries on the titles we have in stock, feel free to call back at a more reasonable hour, is what he plans to say as he places the phone against his ear. What he manages to say is, “Hello,” before a familiar voice stumbles over.

“Oh good, you haven’t left yet. Open the door for me, will you?”

“Crowley?”

“Who else would call you this late? Hurry up.”

“You know, it wouldn’t harm you to say please.”

“You don’t know that.” Aziraphale permits a long enough pause for Crowley to huff and say, “Angel, please . I can’t be out in the open too long.”

Aziraphale would hang up the phone with satisfaction then, if not for the tone of his friends voice. If he didn’t know better, he would call it fear. It takes a moment for him to cross the bookshop, unlock the doorknob and unhinge the chain. Crowley gives him less than three seconds to step back before he enters, the door swinging open and then locking shut with a snap of the demons’ fingers. A perfected trick made with hesitant movements.

“What’s going on?” Aziraphale first questions. His second inquiry is brought about when Crowley responds to the first by placing a wicker basket on his desk. Aziraphale isn’t quite sure how he missed the object before, whether it was another trick or concern tunneling his focus. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that!” Crowley makes a broad gesture with his arms as he settles into Aziraphale’s chair. “Just a little something for our picnic.”

“We’re having a picnic?”

“No, not really, I meant…” Crowley halts, lets his mouth play catch up with his reeling mind, “The picnic. I owe you a picnic from ‘67. For the...you know. Insurance.”

“Crowley, I’m not following.”

“The insurance the, Satan’s sake, the water.” Aziraphale hushes him as Crowley barely gets the word out. “Calm down. If anyone was paying attention to us right now, we’d already be in deep trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Open the damn basket.”

Choosing to overlook the crude word choice, Aziraphale does as requested and cautiously lifts the baskets’ lid. It’s contents are a rather pleasant surprise from his imagination.

“Well. Hello there.” Aziraphale smiles at the infant wrapped in red cloth. The kind of smile Crowley’s become comfortable with; ethereally bright, and warm, and welcoming. It took two centuries for Crowley to gain, as he called it, an immunity. “Crowley,” he continues, still smiling, “why did you bring me a baby in a basket?”

It would’ve been so easy to lie. It’s in his nature to. It would’ve been simple to say, “His parents were killed in a fire,” or, “I found him on the side of the road.” But, given this seemed to be a night for unusual events, he gave an unusual answer: the truth. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Aziraphale looks back to him in that moment, joy now replaced with confused concern. “Nowhere else? Where were you suppose to go?” Crowley shakes his head at the bombardment of questions, “Whose child is this?”

“There it is! The big question.” Crowley shoves himself out of the seat, taking place besides Aziraphale. “This child,” he lazily leans his hip against the desk and crosses his arms across his chest, “is none other than the spawn of my boss.”

“Boss?” Aziraphale repeats, focus shifting between the child and Crowley. As understanding dawns upon him, he jumps away from the basket as though he’d been burned. “You...you can’t be serious, Crowley.” He denies, “You can’t expect me to honestly believe that child is the...the-“

“The Antichrist.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“Would you rather prefer ‘prince of darkness?’”

“I’d prefer ‘baby!’”

Exasperated, Crowley obliges, “Okay, fine. This is the baby of Satan.”

“Good Lord.” Aziraphale isn’t sure when he began pacing but he’s not sure he could stop now. “So, hypothetically,”

“Nothing hypothetical about this situation, angel.”

“Maybe not.” Aziraphale’s pacing quickens, “But, you don’t have any proof. And I don’t know if you’re lying about this.”

“Lying?” Disbelief tangles itself in Crowley’s tone and expression. Pushing off the desk, he takes strides towards Aziraphale and removes his black-tinted glasses. “Look at me.” He states, taking the angel by his shoulders to restrict his movement. Crowley's eyes must have been hypnotic, Aziraphale has always thought. Part of a demon's lure, perhaps. But regardless of the reason, his mild panic seizes as he holds Crowley's gaze. He feels frozen under it. Frozen, but ultimately calm. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Hastur gave him to me. I was in charge of delivering him to a church near Tadfield.”

Aziraphale tears away from golden eyes to look over Crowley’s shoulder. The basket is a lot more active now, due to their raised voices. “So. Why aren’t you in Tadfield?”

“Well dear friend, it’s been a weird night. I started thinking.”

Yes, Aziraphale thought, quite a strange night indeed.

“I like this world. And if it’s supposed to run its course and end naturally, that’s fine by me. I just really don’t want to be the catalyst for that event.”

Crowley’s self-inflicted revelation is interrupted by a sudden, sharp shriek from the basket, followed by hiccuping sobs. With a heavy shrug, Aziraphale removes himself from Crowley’s grasp and takes careful steps back towards his desk. He examines the child closer when he lifts the lid this time. He expects some inhuman physicality - horns, glowing eyes, hooves. The reality is rather unexciting compared to those expectations.

“This is the creature that's supposed to bring about doomsday?” He questions, lowering his hands into the basket as though he were handling poisonous snakes.

“Doomsday, Armageddon, the final battle between Heaven and Hell. End of the world is whatever you want to call it. But there will be no more antique books, or little shops that know your name, or alcohol and...angel, he doesn’t even have teeth yet, he can’t bite you.”

“Just taking precautions.” Aziraphale speaks softer as he lifts the sobbing child out of the basket. He’s careful to keep the blanket as tightly enveloped around the baby as he can. Cradling his head in the crook of his arm, Aziraphale’s charm appears to already be working, for the child’s sobs begin to soften. "Perhaps you should take him back.” Aziraphale keeps his words quiet and tone uplifted, as to not give away the rather dreadful context they carry.

Crowley, instead, snaps back, “I’m sorry, do you want me to start Armageddon?”

“Of course not! I like my bookshop and stores that welcome me by name! And I like humanity, truly.” Aziraphale frowns, “But we’ve known it’s coming. It’s suppose to be part of God’s-“

“Great Plan, of course.” Crowley runs a hand through his hair, gripping a few locks in frustration. “But how do you know this Great Plan is the same as that, whatever you call it, Ineffable Plan?” Aziraphale opens his mouth to push back, but finds a lack of argument there. “How do we know that Doomsday isn't supposed to be thwarted as according to the Ineffable?”

“We can’t question the Lord’s Plan, Crowley.”

“We don’t even know the Lord’s blasted plan!" The angel hushes at Crowley's tone, "Aziraphale, we have two options here-“

“We?"

“You became part of this the moment you smiled at him. Either I take that baby to a specific location at a specific time to ensure the world’s destruction, or…”

“Or?”

“Or...something else, I don’t know! But there has to be another option besides standing aside and letting the world come to an end!”

Aziraphale cradles the child closure to his chest, trying not to disrupt his ease into slumber. “You’re...you aren’t suggesting,” his tone falters just slightly as he tries to vocalize his worry, “that we kill him, are you?”

Crowley hesitates to disagree. “Not right away. That was Plan K.” He attempts a joke. In response, he gets the expression. Eyebrows just slightly raised, mouth pressed in a tight line that's just slightly crooked upward, and should his hands be free he would place them on his hips.

The expression Aziraphale shares with Crowley is one they've come to call 'mocked disappointment.' That, as an angel, Aziraphale should absolutely disapprove of whatever it was Crowley had done or said. However, it was deep down that Aziraphale did find it a bit funny. “Then what are you suggesting?” He asks.

“That we use nurture over nature. Something to cancel out my influence. If he’s raised overwhelmingly good, maybe when he grows into his power he won’t use it to-“

“Destroy the world.” Aziraphale finishes, “But that would require us finding a couple who could undoubtedly shield him from your negative influences.”

For the second time that night, Crowley has an idea. And it’s not a bad one; it’s terrible. So terrible, it just may work. “Almost like an angel.”

He sees Aziraphale’s entire body tense up the moment the words leave his mouth. “No.” He immediately replies, “No, Crowley, absolutely not.”

“Well, do you have a better plan?”

“I cannot raise the Antichrist!”

“Don’t think of him as that, then. Think of him as just a baby!”

Their argument begins to rouse the child, who had finally been able to settle into sleep for the first time that night. At the first sign of waking, both men silence themselves and wait with hushed breath for the baby to settle again.

“See?” Crowley all but whispers, “You’re already wonderful with him.”

“Crowley…”

“Aziraphale. This could work. I can keep an eye on him and keep my office under no suspicion. And if you’re raising him with me, you’re doing your job and interrupting my evildoing through the power of parenthood, or whatever.”

“Parenthood.” Aziraphale almost smiles at the title, though he catches himself. “I suppose this would follow the guidelines. We’d be cancelling each other out, again. Additionally, it would be best for Heaven to have a pair of eyes on him. If we can prove that a child of evil can be persuaded towards the light, that may even prevent another war entirely.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Crowley says, “One step at a time, angel. First step, make sure this baby doesn’t become evil incarnate.”

Aziraphale looks to the child now sleeping soundly in his arms. “We’ll be like his fathers.” He states.

Crowley noticeably flinches at the name. “Godfathers, maybe. Or uncles.”

“Godfathers, then.” Aziraphale negotiates, giving Crowley that blinding smile again.

“A demon, an angel, and the Antichrist. One big happy family, huh?”

“For the world’s sake,” Aziraphale says, “we’ll have to be.”

Chapter Text

An hour and ten minutes into the new day, dark clouds began to culminate over London. And below, in an unsuspecting antique bookshop, an angel and a demon were arguing over what name to give the Antichrist.

“Damien’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Aziraphale has yet to place said Antichrist back in the wicker basket he arrived in. He didn’t want the child to be uncomfortable. A silly thought, he knew, yet he still abides by it.  

“On the nose?” Crowley has made himself comfortable in Aziraphale’s desk chair once more; slouched in what can only be considered a rather painful position, and one leg slung over an arm of the chair. “No, on the nose would be Lucifer Junior.”

Aziraphale inadvertently sighs, looking to the sleeping infant. “Well, we don’t exactly want him to know who he is.” At his own words, Aziraphale comes to a realization. “Do we?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.” Crowley says. “What about Warlock?"

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re not giving a lot of options, either. Going once for Warlock…”

Outside the safety of the shop, the wind has picked up egregiously, and the sidewalk was becoming decorated with splotches of raindrops.

“Going twice…”

And it was in that moment, as the sky opened and released a strike of light above London, that Aziraphale, too, was struck. “Adam.” Crowley was halfway through the word "thrice" when Aziraphale speaks. He doesn’t reply, thus Aziraphale rephrases, “What about Adam?”

“Adam?” Crowley's laughter rests in the back of his throat. “But Damien was too on-the-nose?”

“I think it’s a fine name.” And perhaps it’s another strike of lightning or the angel's smile, but Crowley finds himself agreeing.

“Alright, fine. Adam it is.” He rises with surprising ease from the seat. “Just don’t go getting attached to this one, too. Last thing he needs is a flaming sword.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue, a half-hearted venture to silence the demon. When he looks back down to the infant in his arms, satisfaction blooms in his chest because yes, he does look like an Adam, doesn't he? And if there’s something else which sprouts there, well, he ignores it for the time being.

“I don’t suppose you know exactly how to care for a child?” He finds himself wondering.

“Nope. But you’re clever, you’ll figure it out.” Comes Crowley’s answer from behind him, among the shuffling of clothing. Aziraphale turns to see Crowley, black glasses in proper place, fixing up his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Relax, angel.” The demon grins in a way that offers little comfort. “I have a mess to clean up with some nuns, before word gets to downstairs that I haven’t been following instructions.”

“You’re going to leave me here?” Aziraphale isn’t quite sure why the idea is so unsettling. He’s been doing fine all night. But, Adam has also been blissfully quiet through most of it.

“I’m coming back.” Crowley sways back to the door, which swings open with a snap. The threshold no longer muffles the storm, and Adam shifts at the change in environment.

“But, Crowley-!”

“It’s just a baby, Aziraphale. You’ll do fine.” Crowley shuts the door firmly behind him, the sound bouncing off the shelves and curved walls of the bookshop. There’s a moment of silence before Adam’s cries break through.

“Oh, dear.”

~

By some miracle, holy or likely otherwise, the Satanic church down the road was still in the midst of handling two entirely ordinary children when Crowley finally arrived. As he shuts the engine off, he makes no move to exit the Bentley.

He was there, that was a piece of the instructions he followed. The rest was ‘deliver the wicker basket containing the child of Satan,’ and he was currently down a basket, child and a plan.

“Well, shit.” He mutters, shoving the door open. If he couldn’t trick every individual in the building, he could lie. He’s a very convincing liar. Tell one nun he’s made the transfer himself, she tells the others, and they tell Hastur. Such a boast may even earn some bonus points downstairs.

There’s a man waiting outside, one he doesn’t recognize. Not that he should; they have many human “agents” walking around, he hasn’t made any attempts to keep track of them all.

“You’re bloody late.” The agent says. “They still haven’t told me if I’m allowed in, when should I-?”

“Which room?” Crowley strides around him.

“Oh. Three, I believe.” Three. Easy to remember. “Should I come with you?”

“I don’t need a guide.” He leaves the oddly curious man outside. He turns down two incorrect hallways before he finds the helpfully labelled doors on the other side of the building. When he's before the third door, he realizes he still hasn’t come up with a proper lie.

You work better under pressure, anyway, Aziraphale Minor says. So he stands a little taller, brushes his hair back, and grips the doorknob when Sister Loquacious is suddenly at his side.

“Master Crowley?” Crowley does not, in anyway, jump at her voice. Because demons, obviously, do not get surprised. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you-”

“You didn’t.” He states, checking his glasses were still properly in place.

“You’re rather late, Master Crowley.”

Here’s your pressure.

“...I’m perfectly on time. It flows differently down there.”

If Sister Loquacious takes note of his odd behavior, she does not make mention. Instead, she comments on a different observation. “Where’s the Master’s child? We’re ready for the transfer.”

“The child, right. See I, well. I already…made the transfer.”

What? 

“What?” 

“Yeah.”

Yeah?

“Just now. Popped in and,” He makes a vague gesture. She appears to understand what he means, even if he isn’t quite sure himself.

“But. We had a whole system in place-”

“Well, I just saved a lot of trouble. So, you’re welcome. Now, when Hastur shows up, tell him-”

“Speaking through humans? More of an angels’ act, don’t you think, Crowley?”

Crowley doesn’t know when Hastur arrived, nor how long he had been lurking over their conversation before deciding to make himself known. Despite it all, Crowley puts on a smile as he turns to meet the fellow demon.

He says: “Hastur! Wonderful, now I can cut out the middleman.”

He wants to say: “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”

Hastur says: “Where’s the Antichrist, Crowley?”

Crowley hears: “You have two choices. Come clean now, before digging yourself into further and future trouble. Or, dig.”

He grabs a shovel.

“Right where he should be. Snuggled up with his new family.” He knocks his knuckles against the third door.

“Master Crowley...” Whatever Sister Loquacious wants to say is quickly silenced by Hastur’s glare. He shifts it to Crowley shortly afterwards, before shoving the door open and stepping inside the unremarkable bare room. Crowley follows behind, and Sister Loquacious after him.

The woman sleeping on the plain bed isn’t what Crowley would imagine when considering the word ‘corrupt.’ She appeared too soft, with round cheeks, upturned lips, and gentle blonde hair. Or, perhaps she simply reminded him of someone else.

Hastur looms over the quiet child besides her. “He looks...normal.”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Crowley asks, “Might complicate things if the mother notices her perfectly normal child suddenly has horns or hooves.”

Hastur scowls. He steps away from the infant and into Crowley’s personal place. “He had a red blanket. What did you do?”

Crowley hadn’t always worn glasses. In the early centuries, when mankind was still trying to figure out their place in the new world, he didn’t feel there was any need to hide his eyes. It was only when women gasped and children started to scream in his direction that he considered that living among humans would require necessary adaptations. Currently, he’s thankful for the decision, for Hastur would have been able to see the fear his voice does not give away, if not for the tinted glasses.

“I followed instructions, like a good little demon. You really want to throw a fit over the color of a piece of cloth?”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Would really be the end of the world if demons started trusting each other, I think.”

Hastur nearly hisses at the statement. “I’ll figure out what trick you’ve pulled. You can’t keep it up for eleven years.”

The smart action to do would be stay quiet; let Hastur return to Hell, deliver the news, and return to Aziraphale in one piece.

“We’ll see.” He says, a challenge in his words. Hastur simply grins before the tiled floor under their feet opens and drags him under. A mute acceptance to the game Crowley’s begun.

“Uhm. Master Crowley?” Sister Loquacious’ voice is meek, but Crowley doesn’t have time to stick around. He turns to her, poison on his tongue.

“You will not speak of this to the others. Tell them the job is done, and send the family on their way.”

She shrinks back and nods eagerly. After all, you don’t test a snake ready to strike. Crowley leaves the church in a flurry, as though hell were hot on his heels. And it may very well be. But, as he gets in his car, he knows the name on his mind could drive it away. The Bentley is screeching off without another worry.

Now, had Crowley stayed and listened to Sister Loquacious, he would have learned the family he should have placed the "Antichrist" with was in room four, not three. But, how much damage could come from a mistake as small as a wrong number?

~

It takes Aziraphale ten minutes to calm Adam back to slumber after Crowley’s abrupt departure. The weight of their decision was beginning to settle, now. No longer hypothetical and instead actions he was actively participating in. Here he was, alone with the Antichrist, and he almost thought the child looked sweet as he slept.

To say he was starting to panic would be quite an understatement. Of course, he placed the child back into the basket before he expressed that panic.

“The Antichrist is in my bookshop.” He begins pacing again, wringing his hands together. “The Antichrist has arrived, which subsequently means the end times will, too. And he’s in a basket. In my bookshop. And I’ve named him. I’m going to raise him.” Aziraphale’s lungs may not functioning organs, merely accessories within to the body he inhabits, yet despite this he takes a deep breath, as though it would help clear his mind. “What have I agreed to?”

“Making deals without consulting us?”

Aziraphale mocks another inhale as he says, “Gabriel!”

He spins on his heel to find the archangel scanning the poetry section, hands clasped firmly behind his back. “I hadn’t, no, I’m not making...I didn’t know you were visiting.”

“I assure you, it’s not under good circumstance.” Gabriel slides a collection of Emily Dickinson from the shelf - Aziraphale’s signed copy - and begins idly flipping through.

“Ah, please be careful with...sorry?”

Gabriel tugs each page as he turns it and makes his way towards Aziraphale with paced steps. “I never really understood the allure of poems.” He skims through three pages, “The wording was always a bit too pompous, to me.”

Aziraphale finds himself taking careful steps backwards, towards the desk. Specifically to place himself in front of the basket, making his body something of a barrier. “Yes, well. Poetry is certainly a unique style.”

Gabriel hums, then shuts the book. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It will all be gone soon.” He step besides Aziraphale to place the book on the desk, to which Aziraphale shifts his body accordingly. He leans awkwardly against his desk to keep the basket out of sight. “I’m here to talk about the Antichrist.”

Aziraphale's metaphorical heart drops to his metaphorical stomach. “Pardon?”

“We have reliable sources who have stated that, at some point tonight, the Antichrist was brought to Earth. We can only assume he's already been placed with a chosen, unsuspecting family."

“Oh, I see.”

“It’s only precaution that we tell everyone. It’s good to start preparing now.” Gabriel takes two steps to the left and Aziraphale mimics him. His elbow knocks against the basket and Adam lets out a soft murmur in protest.

Aziraphale just so happens to clear his throat at the same time. “Preparing?”

“For the end of the world.” Gabriel’s smile reaches his eyes; he's ecstatic. “And the war to follow. But it’s never too early to start thinking strategy.”

“War. Right.” Aziraphale returns a dull smile. Satisfied, Gabriel nods and readies himself to make a swift exit. “Just out of curiosity, Gabriel.” Aziraphale quickly adds, “Exactly how certain are we that the end of the world needs to happen?”

“Oh, a hundred percent. It’s written down.”

“Yes, but. Suppose there was a way for us to intervene. Ensure that the Antichrist never...becomes the Antichrist, so to speak.”

Gabriel laughs. “That’s ridiculous. We don’t even know where he is.”

“What if we did?”

Any amusement Gabriel had at the idea becomes suspicion. “Do we?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale quickly backtracks, “This is hypothetical. Obviously, I wouldn’t know where the Antichrist is. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be a very good angel if I kept it secret from you.”

“Right.” Gabriel says, “Maybe give less consideration to those hypotheticals. If they are just that.” He turns away from Aziraphale, back to the poetry section. “I’d say it was nice to see you but, we don't really lie.”

In a flash of light, the space he once occupied is now vacant, and Aziraphale stops carrying himself so tall. The archangel’s departure occurs just in time, for Crowley’s bursting through the door less than thirty seconds after. “Does anyone knock, anymore?” The angel snaps. The outburst stops Crowley in his tracks. “Sorry.” He says, returning to the desk. He briefly checks that Adam is still asleep before he picks up Dickinson's collection, checking that none of the pages had torn.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, fine.” Aziraphale, content that the book is still in good condition, returns it to the place on the shelf. “How did it go?”

“Oh. Perfectly.” Crowley takes his turn to check Adam, frowning at the child’s blanket. “...They don’t suspect a thing.”

“Neither does my side.” Aziraphale says, the lie settling uncomfortably somewhere in his chest. “Crowley. Are you sure this is a good idea?” Crowley looks to the angel, his question resting in the furrow of his brow. “I mean, what if this doesn’t work? What if we’re caught?”

“We won’t be.” Crowley states with such confidence, Aziraphale almost feels ridiculous for posing the question. “All we gotta do is keep the kid happy for eleven years. How difficult can that possibly be?”

“Neither of us even have a proper place for a child, Crowley. My bookshop is too crowded and your apartment is…”

“Minimalist?”

“I was going for boring.”

Crowley smiles, though it doesn’t last long. “...Tadfield seemed pretty ordinary when I drove through.” Interest flashes over Aziraphale’s expression. “Small town, simple people. No one's going to look for the Antichrist there.”

Aziraphale considers the offer. “What about my-”

“Your bookshop would be fine.” Crowley waves the question off. “Snap of my fingers, no one will even remember it was here.” Aziraphale’s eyes almost comically widen. “Relax, angel. It’ll still be here, but no one will see it. What do you say?” He extends his hand between them.”

Aziraphale should say no. He should have turned the whole idea down. Nothing good will come of this, he knows.

“If you had told me six thousand years ago I’d be in such a situation, I think that would have been our last conversation.” He takes the demon’s hand. “But, I do believe there’s just been a sudden vacancy in Tadfield.”

~

Above Soho, London, the morning sun breaks through rain-heavy clouds and begins to wake the city. Cars roll over puddles which have collected in the streets, and tired passerby complain of humidity in the misty early hours. Most pass by a building that, only yesterday, was once an antique bookshop. Now, the space is empty. Perhaps, some think, it had never been there at all.

Chapter Text

“There’s a new family down the road.”

Deidre Young presents this information to Arthur Young on Tuesday morning.

Though they were released home soon after Arthur had decided on a name for his son - Jude, as was suggested - Deidre still needs rest. Thus, Arthur had taken the liberty of rising early to prepare breakfast and much needed coffee for when she awoke.

But, Deidre being bedridden had her knowledge of such information something of a mystery.

“I don’t recall any homes being for sale.” He says, settling at the edge of their mattress to hand her coffee.

“Neither do I,” She admits, “but I heard their car, saw them pull in. Two men and a baby.”

“Brothers?”

“Didn’t seem it.” Arthur hums; rather strange, in his option. But, between the nuns and off-putting doctor that night, they wouldn't be the most bizarre people he’d seen. “We should offer help.”

“What you should do,” Arthur says, “is rest. And I will go check on our own baby.”

Deidre smiles behind her cup. “Would you at least welcome them to the neighborhood, dear?”

And Arthur, who rarely denies Deidre's smile yet hated small talk, settles on an ultimatum: “After coffee.”

~

As it would turn out, a small town with simple people took quick notice to a house down the road that most certainly hadn’t been abandoned before today.

Even more peculiar was the couple moving in.

First, they arrived in a Bentley.

Second, they came from the city.

Most of Tadfield’s residents had either been born there or traveled from another small, simple town. People didn’t come from the city, they went to it.

Yet, beyond gossiping neighbors and curious children, there was little talk spreading of the couple beyond the convenience of their new home. If there was talk of the men’s unusual fashion tastes or complaints of their bickering waking half the neighborhood if their screeching car already hadn’t, it was kept behind closed doors.

There’s an unspoken rule in Tadfield; no matter how odd someone may be, if they are doing no harm, they may do as they please.

Aziraphale was rather grateful for that rule.

There was something he had sensed when they came barreling into Tadfield that morning.

“Do you feel that?” He had asked; whether to Crowley, himself, or Adam in his car seat (which Crowley had "miracled" up before they left, along with an unhelpful ‘baby on board’ sign), Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure.

“What?”

“Love.” It was no secret that angels could sense love wherever they went; Aziraphale just happened to be extremely susceptible to it. “There’s so much love here.”

“Was there no love back in Soho?” Crowley asked, before slamming on the breaks on a turn.

After berating Crowley for his speed, Aziraphale clarified, “There’s always been love, I’ve felt it on Earth since the garden. But, here is different. Stronger.”

Crowley lost interest in his discovery quickly, but Aziraphale was concocting theories. Either the people of Tadfield loved their lives more than those in the city, or one of them was bringing that much love into Tadfield. The reason would likely remain a mystery, but it left Aziraphale feeling more confident in the decision to move.

The lack of interruptions from eager, chatty neighbors had made the process of setting up the home quicker. Besides a few belongings and books Aziraphale could fit in one box, both he and Crowley lack what should be considered mandatory for a stable home life. But, they would make do.

Crowley keeps Adam occupied - his mute thanks to Aziraphale for handling the child overnight - whilst Aziraphale happily miracles his way from room to room. Nothing too excessive, of course; he didn’t want to alert upstairs and fill out paperwork. Again.

A couch there, a television on that wall, a bookshelf against the other. Then a crib upstairs, followed by clothing, formula, nappies, soft toys - everything Aziraphale believed was necessary to raise a baby, in theory. He has yet to practice.

The home they had chosen has two bedrooms. While angels certainly didn’t need sleep, it felt odd to leave the bedroom down the hall untouched. A snap of his fingers centers a sheet-less bed against the wall opposite the door. Though it would likely go unused, it would help avoid certain questions.

When an interruption did come, Aziraphale had just settled on the order by which his books would be displayed in the living room. Three knocks upon the door drew his attention to the front of the home. The man on their porch seemed awkward, but harmless nonetheless.

“Hello.” He says as Aziraphale cracks open the door, “My wife saw you arrive this morning and wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiles and opens the door a bit wider, “well, thank you. That’s rather kind.” His attention is diverted towards the stairwell as cries begin to swell from the second floor. Crowley had said he could set Adam down for a nap. It didn’t sound to be an easy task. “Oh, dear.” He frowns.

“Your first one, too?” Arthur asks. Aziraphale’s question must be written on his face when he turns back, because Arthur shrugs and answers, “I met my Jude last night. I don’t think I’ve been able to relax since. Every little noise he makes has me wonder if something’s wrong. Bit terrifying, isn’t it? Their whole world depends on us, but I barely understand my own.”

Aziraphale hadn’t given a name to the weight in his chest which became present the moment he held Adam. As Arthur spoke, it made itself known: anxiety.

“Yes.” He says, “It is. Terrifying.”

“Have you decided on a name yet?”

“Adam.” The name now comes naturally.

“Maybe one day soon, the boys can play in our garden.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale smiles at the idea.

“Who is it, angel?” Crowley’s voice rises over his thought. The demon’s sauntering his way down the stairs and he all but freezes on the last step. Arthur perks up in surprise.

“Doctor?” Arthur asks.

“Who?” Aziraphale implores.

“You.” Crowley states.

Aziraphale turns to his companion, “You know each other?”

“We meant briefly, at the church.” Arthur answers for Crowley, who’s too busy trying to wrap his head around why an agent is on their doorstep. “We didn’t make proper introductions. I’m Arthur Young, we live down the road.”

Crowley’s not entirely sure what game he’s playing at, nor who set him up to it. Possibly Hastur.

Likely Hastur, moving the first piece in their game.

So, he plays along. He steps into the doors’ threshold, just slightly in front of Aziraphale, and offers a hand to Arthur. “Crowley.” He waits a breath, for recognition or fear. He’s instead met with expectancy, “Anthony J. Crowley.”

Arthur nods into the handshake, then looks to Aziraphale. The angel finds himself somewhat flustered. “Right. My turn, then.” He pauses, allows himself as much silence as appropriate before it becomes obvious that his lie is a lie, and lies, “I’m Azira...Fell.”

Crowley shifts abrupt laughter to a cough.

“Fell and Crowley?” Arthur repeats, “Haven’t tied the knot yet, I take it?”

The question is quite unexpected. So unexpected, it doesn’t register right away. It hits Crowley first, who stumbles over so much of his words his reply is unintelligible. So, it falls to Aziraphale to clean up the mess with forced laughter hinged on every word.

“No, unfortunately. Not yet.” He can feel the look Crowley gives him; raised eyebrows and lips quirking into an amused smile he’ll keep hidden.

“I suppose it’s not the sort of thing one should rush.” Arthur says. “I should get back. If either of you ever need any help, our door will be open.”

“Thank you, Mr. Young.” Aziraphale says sincerely. He waits for Arthur to reach the bottom of their porch before shutting the door. The couple turns to each other and their voices meld:

“Doctor?”

“Unfortunately?”

“I was thinking on my feet!” Aziraphale defends, “You were barely any help.”

“This is just wonderful.” Crowley steps away from the doorway to the nearest window, watching Arthur as he wanders down the side of the road. “How much did you tell him?”

“I didn’t mention that Earth’s demise is asleep upstairs, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Only a matter of time before the whole town knows about us now.” Crowley steps back from the window, “All these people are going to think I’m a medical professional. This is terrible.”

“We have more pressing issues besides that, Crowley.”  

“Right. They also think we’re together.” Aziraphale almost replies, what’s so wrong with that? Wouldn’t that help? He bites his tongue, instead. “What are we going to do?” Crowley asks.

As Aziraphale sees it, there’s only one option: “What we’ve been doing for the past few millennia. Blend in.”

~

Two weeks into god-fatherhood, Crowley was beginning to question parents who complain about infants and their sleeping schedules.

It wasn’t as though Crowley had a schedule. He didn’t require rest, but that didn’t mean he had to dislike it. It was fun, he thought, making oneself unconscious for a couple hours in the night. The bed Aziraphale had placed in the spare bedroom worked well enough whenever Crowley wanted to indulge.

But, he was expecting any indulgence to be forced aside by Adam’s wails overnight. They had been lucky not to have any incidents, yet.

Had been.

According to his internal clock, it’s too damn late and he’s been awoken for the fifth time that evening. Too often for this outburst to be normal. He gets out of bed more groggy than usual and wanders down the hall towards Adam’s bedroom.

He finds the door already opened.

There’s gentle shushing coming from inside, overpowered by Adam’s lungs. Aziraphale’s back is to the door when Crowley enters. Adam is in his arms, cradled close to Aziraphale’s chest. He can see the way the angel winces when another bout of sobs fills the room.

“He doesn’t seem to be listening.” Crowley means for the comment to be lighthearted, but Aziraphale turns to him with concern written over his features.

“I can’t tell what’s wrong.” He says, “I don’t know if it’s a hungry cry, or just a cry, or if there’s something wrong -”

“Angel.” Aziraphale quiets at his voice, “Let me try.”

He doesn’t make more progress than Aziraphale had with Adam in his arms, but it gives Aziraphale a much needed break. Eventually Adam exhausts himself enough to fall into the types of dreams only infants can conjure; shapes and sounds and colors, blending and twisting until they are no longer separate and utterly, intangibly beautiful.

Crowley doesn’t place him back into the crib and Aziraphale makes no move to take him back. “I don’t know if I can do this alone.” The angel whispers, as though he were afraid to wake the silence.

And when Crowley looks to him, framed in the dark of the room by light pouring in from the doorway, all Aziraphale can focus on golden eyes. They remind him about the calm motion of breathing. When Crowley speaks, Aziraphale is thrown by his calming tone. “You aren’t.”

~

Aziraphale does end up taking the Young’s proposal for advice. He visits their home more frequently than Deidre visits theirs, by his own preference. 

Six thousand years can teach you a lot; how violent revolutions start and end, how long it takes for grudges to become painful, how to grasp the idea of time and years when they don't truly affect you. None of those skills really help with changing diapers, however.

He attempts to teach Crowley what he learns as the months pass, much to the demon’s dismay.

“You know, I’m just supposed to fill his mind with evil thoughts, not sing him to sleep.” He’ll argue before, inevitably, doing the latter.

But, there is always a price for hospitality. Deidre offers dinner eleven times over the course of eight months. Aziraphale runs out of excuses by the tenth.

“I just don’t trust them.” Crowley had used this argument only eight times. The other three involved him traveling downstairs for a day or so.

A business trip, Aziraphale would tell Deidre; another stretched truth.

“Why not?” Aziraphale had also asked this question eight times, though each was met with vague gestures or a request for trust. “It’s just one dinner. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Now, Crowley wasn’t exactly sure how to present the reason for his hesitation. Our neighbors’ husband may work for my boss, but I don’t know for sure, wasn’t exactly a simple conversation.

“Food could be terrible.”

“Oh, please.” Aziraphale exasperates, then negotiates, “What if I bring the wine?”

He calls Deidre two minutes later to ask if, by any chance, they were free tonight.

~

Living among humans for six thousand years allows for plenty of observation into habits and social norms. For Crowley, it was interesting watching which trends change and which are maintained. For Aziraphale, it was more interesting how those changes affected the food or clothing culture.

For both, they concluded it was always easier to hide in plain sight than actively participate. As such, the “small talk” they make at dinner was, indeed, small. Crowley covers most of their lies, and what truths they can tell Aziraphale stretches.

Adam keeps them busy through awkward silences, shifting from Crowley’s lap to Aziraphale, and to the carpet with Jude throughout the evening. Conversation about the children were easier to maintain, until Arthur asks about Adam’s birth parents.

“They’re dead.” Is Crowley’s instant reply.

Aziraphale offers a less dreadful, “We didn’t know much about them.”

Then Deidre asks a question that, really, they should have prepared for: “So, how did you two meet?”

Crowley doesn’t take this one. His mouth is conveniently occupied with his glass of wine.

So, it leaves Aziraphale bumbling out, “It, uhm. Well, it’s a long story, really.” Deidre looks on with anticipation in her smile. “I was, or we were, in a garden. Lovely garden, too. Beautiful trees and…” He trails off when Crowley clears his throat, “Right. I had been minding my business, observing the wildlife, and he comes right up and begins a conversation.” The memory pulls at Crowley’s lips; he diverts the smile to Adam, who’s currently attempting to reach for Aziraphale’s glass.

“Love at first sight?” Deidre teases.

“Heavens, no. I thought he was rather devilish, honestly.” Aziraphale hears the laugh Crowley drowns with more wine. “Took more than a few years for me to actually like him.”

“You had stayed in touch all that time?” Arthur asks.

“We kept running into each other.” Crowley says.

The conversation, realistically, could end there. However, Aziraphale adds unprompted, “There was an incident with some books I have. I thought I had lost them. He helped me get them back. I think that was the first time I considered the possibility that I may actually like running into him.”

Aziraphale misses the flicker of emotion against Crowley’s expression; one of cautious wonders, genuine shock, and more importantly hope.

“How sweet.” Deidre says, almost wistfully. The dinner continues for only a half hour after that; Adam begins to grow rowdy from fatigue.

Crowley and Aziraphale leave in a flurry of handshakes and promises of a second dinner, then walk side-by-side up the road to their quaint, two-story home. They don’t speak, though Aziraphale takes note of the glances Crowley gives him as they walk; like he wants to say something, but won’t. Aziraphale also takes note of Crowley’s hair. He had pulled it partly up some point that evening, though Aziraphale wonders when. He next wonders if he’s been staring for too long, then wonders why.

Adam’s fallen asleep against Aziraphale’s shoulder before they reach the porch, and Aziraphale turns to Crowley at the doorway to break their silence.

“I believe that went well.” His voice is gentle, not quite a whisper, “Think they believed us?”

“They didn’t seem suspicious.”

Aziraphale smiles at his answer. “We’re rather good at this ‘partner’ setup.”

If Aziraphale sees the flicker of wonder and hope this time, he’s good at hiding it. “I suppose we are.” Crowley says, and leaves the rest of his words hanging. Silence grips them again, and it takes a soft complaint from Adam for Aziraphale to move.

“I’ll get him settled.” He steps past the threshold and leaves Crowley outside, despite something pulling at him to stay.

~

Contrary to popular belief, demons can love.

Crowley can’t sense it, as Aziraphale can, but he can experience it. And in six-thousand years, Crowley has experienced love a lot; but he has loved once, for much longer.

Those years also provided plenty of time to learn certain skill sets. Keeping secrets is among the more valuable ones, and Crowley learned it fast. He may be holding onto the longest kept secret in history.

He’s been in love with someone who, by all accounts, he should despise. Six thousand years was almost enough time to accept the love will stay on his side. After tonight, all that work is becoming undone.

His suggestion that they keep Adam had been panic-induced and ill-planned, but he also hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be anything but the voice of reason.

Now, he stands outside the doorway, staring ahead but not necessarily inside what should be considered their home, and accepts he will only keep falling.

He doesn’t know that one floor above, his best kept secret is beginning to be reciprocated.

Chapter Text

When God created Eden, She chose four specific angels to guard it’s gates from the world She had yet to perfect. 

The angel of the Northern Gate kept watch atop the walls surrounding Eden; they argued being able to see danger from the horizon would be more effective than staying down below and waiting for trouble to come.

The angel of the Southern Gate kept watch at the base of the walls surrounding Eden; they argued it would take too long to glide down from the walls to stop Evil from entering the garden, and they would face it head on. 

The angel of the Western Gate stood guard within the walls of Eden; they argued that God’s walls were strong enough to withstand whatever Evil threw at them, and they should instead prepare for any who may sneak inside.

The angel of the Eastern Gate liked to wander. It wasn’t as though the angel purposely neglected duty; the angel kept a sword, a gift from God, to smite any Evil they may come across on their walks. The angel was simply fascinated by the garden and enjoyed exploring its beauty. 

One day, God created something fascinating and new to observe. The angel wasn’t quite sure what to make of them; God named them “humans,” and warned the angels of interactions. There was a possibility, She said, they wouldn’t be able to grasp what the angels were. Angels, as they are, were too intangible, too ethereal, too fatal. 

The Northern, Southern and Western angels obliged and kept their distances. The angel of the Eastern Gate bent the rules. 

They changed themselves to be perceived as human rather than holy. 

They didn’t quite get it right the first time; they still shone heavenly and kept one too many eyes. So they tried again and again. Each time their “body” got better, more native. 

They learned plenty from the humans; they were curious and innocent and soft. Or, perhaps that was too delicate a word. They were vulnerable, but they were allowed to be. Thus, mankind became even more alluring. 

The angel learned the human’s names, and then found their own. Adam and Lilith; the first man and woman. Though they didn’t appear to understand that. The angel - who now went by Aziraphale - tried explaining, and after a while Lilith began asking questions. Apparently, that left God unhappy, for one day Lilith was there, the next she was someone new. Eve . 

(Aziraphale still only speculates what happened to her. He prefers a theory that she’s among the stars.)

With Eve, God made room in the garden for something else, too. An apple tree. She said She wanted to test mankind. And God wanted the Eastern angel to watch over them. Aziraphale, admittedly, didn’t understand why. 

God had chosen those four angels for reasons unknown to them. But, they placed their trust in the Great Plan. As such, angels did not believe in choice, but in fate. Every action of every creature was meticulously planned to lead the world towards one goal. It was not the angel’s jobs to know that goal, only to ensure they reached it. 

The angel of the Eastern Gate never questioned God, at least not openly. Not when the apple tree was placed under their protection, nor when God banished Adam and Eve to the world. 

There was a reason, Aziraphale had thought. A reason for the tree and the original sin, a reason Aziraphale gave the sword away. 

Then, the angel of the Eastern Gate met the snake of Eden. And the angel, whether they knew it or not, made a choice. 

If you asked the angel today whether he chose to give God’s gift of fire and curse of war to humanity, he would argue no, of course not. God had wanted him to give the sword to Adam, otherwise humanity would have ceased to exist. 

If you then asked him if, had he kept the sword, he would have slain the serpent when they met, he would struggle to answer yes, for it was his duty. 

And if you asked if he chose to befriend the serpent of Eden, Aziraphale would hesitate to say it was rather fate; for if it were fate, why would God allow such a friendship to bloom?

And why would She allow it to blossom, to grow from annoyance to intrigue to fondness, and now to longing. 

Angels sense emotion in strong waves; both positive and negative. The trait allows them to find and help those who need it the most. Aziraphale is skilled in becoming harmonious with the waves around him. With his own emotions, however, Aziraphale has a different mechanism: acknowledge, bury, carry on. 

He does as such now, as he hides in Adam’s bedroom until the early morning hours from the demon down the hall, who had likely been asleep hours ago. He breathes and gathers his thoughts to then bury them deep. He will deal with them later, if at all. There are more important things to handle, anyway. 

~

Time is still a strange concept for Crowley and Aziraphale. They understand the purpose of it; humans cannot perceive existence as simply being, they need dates and times and ages in order to plan out their lives accordingly, to find purpose. 

Crowley thinks the whole process is rather dramatic while Aziraphale has become comfortable referencing time without following it. 

Time, as it is, passes differently for them. They remember events and people with whom they form relationships, but not every moment of every day over the past six-thousand years. Their memories are more like photographs of the ages. 

As such, they remember eleven years in "snapshots."

~

Jude learns his first words at nine months old. Deidre is absolutely ecstatic for the following weeks. 

She drags Aziraphale over the day it happens and spends fifteen minutes practically begging for Jude to say ‘mum’ again. He does, eventually, and though Aziraphale shares her joyous enthusiasm he leaves a bit concerned. Not for the Young family, but for his own. 

He attempts to coerce some semblance of language from Adam for the rest of the evening. He receives silent confusion. The angel’s not upset, by any means. He’s gotten on well enough without Adam being vocal; he can accurately decipher between hungry and lonely cries, now. 

Though he hadn’t been necessarily worried before, he can’t help but compare himself to Deirdre. He waits two months before bringing it to Crowley’s attention.

“What’s it matter?” He asks as Aziraphale is placing a half-awake Adam in his highchair. “All he’d be able to say is gibberish that we’d interpret as words. That’s why it’s called baby talk.”

“Well, I’d been reading.” Aziraphale makes his way through the kitchen, putting together Adam’s breakfast, “And everything states that language reinforcement is very important at this stage.”

“What would he say, anyway?” Crowley says, leaning against the counter-top besides Aziraphale, “‘Godfather’ is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

“Jude’s been saying mum and dad. We could start with those.”

“And which of us would Adam be referring to if he said ‘mum’?”

Aziraphale prepares his mock-disappointment look. He’s shaking his head, hands on his hips and ‘would it matter?’ formulating on his tongue when he noticeably freezes. 

“Angel?” Crowley‘s posture tenses, “what’s wrong?”

“Gabriel wants to speak with me.” Comes Aziraphale’s quiet reply. Holy communication isn’t as obvious as phone calls or crawling up from the ground, as they do in Hell. They come in sensations; a shift in a summer breeze, the ring of a bell pitching an octave for only a moment, a specific nightingale song. It comes to Aziraphale as a whistle; too high for human ears, and possibly silent to demons as well. “Must be urgent.” Aziraphale glances to Adam’s food - mush , Crowley’s been calling it - then to his partner. “Could you-?” He starts, and Crowley’s already waving the question off.

“I can handle breakfast. Go on.”

Aziraphale exits the room with a slight bow and thanks in the way his eyebrows rise with his smile. Adam grows fussy in his chair as the angel hurries up the stairs. 

“I hate seeing him go, too.” Crowley places the mush - because yes, Aziraphale, that’s exactly what it is - before Adam, who happily buries his hands into it. “You know,” Crowley drags out a chair from the dining table, and flips it around to allow himself to face Adam, but still sit not-so-conventionally in the seat, “upsetting an angel may be your first sin. Congratulations.” The smile Adam gives him could be classified as mischievous, for it’s one he returns. “I wouldn’t worry too much. He’ll forgive you.”

Aziraphale isn’t sure where Crowley currently goes when Hell requests a meeting. He assumes back to London, to that ordinary glass building no one would assume to be the front door to their respective offices. He knows one thing for certain: Crowley always leaves Tadfield.

When Aziraphale wants to speak with his head office nowadays, he sleeps. Not as Crowley does. He supposes he mimics the notion of rest, leaving his body on Earth whilst he takes the journey up. There are many doors to Heaven; the mind just happens to be one of them. 

The bed is unmade when he enters the room, evidence of Crowley’s attempt to indulge the night before. Aziraphale will admit, he doesn’t understand the appeal of purposely making yourself unconscious for no reason other than one wants to. But, he does see the appeal of beds. They’re soft, with pillows and blankets as extra comforts. 

It isn’t a necessary part of the journey that he must straighten the sheets over the mattress before tucked himself under the blanket. Simply put, he just likes to. 

He half expects to wait for Gabriel when he arrives among the pristine white pillars of Heaven. Rather, Gabriel is there before him, hands clasped behind him as they always are. He’s not alone, either. Uriel and Michael stand stiff besides him. 

Aziraphale greets his superiors with a surprised, “Oh!”

“Aziraphale.” Michael says. 

“Archangel Michael. Uriel,” He greets with a slight bow, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“We all wanted to catch up.” Gabriel smiles, “It’s been a while since your last update.”

“Right,” Aziraphale fidgets with his hands, “I’ve been rather busy, these past few months.”

“Busy?” Uriel repeats, “On Earth?”

“Well,” Aziraphale tries to still his hands; he needs a way to keep them busy, otherwise they’ll give him away, “given that it won’t be around in a decade I figured I should indulge in what it has to offer.”

He notes his mistake in word choice before Michael repeats, “Indulge?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth opens to backpedal, to apologize for speaking at all. 

Gabriel intervenes first: “That’s actually why we called for you.” He takes careful, calculated steps forward yet still manages to keep a strangers’ distance. “A few months ago, I told you the Antichrist had been brought to Earth and delivered to an oblivious family. You had said something that night that I laughed off as one of your hypotheticals. That we should find the location of this child and play a hand in his upbringing.”

Aziraphale’s hands clasped around each other, providing some small comfort as something akin to fear rises up his throat. “It, uhm. It had only been a suggestion, really. I had no intention to act upon it.”

Uriel takes a step forward as Gabriel stops his calm pace. “Perhaps you should act.” They say. 

“Pardon?”

Gabriel shifts his position to face Aziraphale directly, now close enough to just barely loom over him. “One of the Principalities came to us with rumors that the demon in charge of the delivery didn’t properly do his job.” Aziraphale has been attempting to keep his expression blank during this conversation. But for a breath, shock washes over his features. Michael makes note of it. 

“Crowley,” Uriel says, “is the name of this demon. You’ve had run-ins with it in the past, I believe.”

Aziraphale keeps his voice steady, though he does not feel stable. “The name sounds familiar.”

“There’s reason to believe he’s attempting to stop the apocalypse.” Gabriel continues.

“Well, excuse my wording, but what sense would that make?” Aziraphale politely counters, “Why would a demon want to interfere with the apocalypse?”

“To interfere with the Great Plan.” Michael replies with annoyance on their tongue. 

“We don’t have proof.” Gabriel admits, “But, for the sake of the Great Plan, we want you to find the child and ensure he’s raised as intended. You need to thwart whatever plan Crowley’s created.”

Aziraphale’s hesitance must show, for Uriel asks, “Or is that too big a job for you?”

“No.” He answers too quickly, “I can thwart. That’s our jobs, isn’t it? To thwart evil.”

Gabriel smiles, “Wonderful! Remember, keep us updated.” Aziraphale doesn’t get to manage a goodbye before the Archangels send him back to Earth in a snap. Gabriel drops his grin the moment the angel in gone. “See what I mean?” He asks.

“Yes.” Uriel says.

“Strange, even for him.” Michael agrees.

While Aziraphale slept and three Archangels discussed how to handle the obstacle named Crowley, said obstacle was in his kitchen negotiating with the “lost” Antichrist. 

“Have you given it a try?” Crowley asks, “Just mum or dad. It’s only three letters. Two of them are the same.” Adam shoves more mush into his face and Crowley responds with an exasperated sigh. “You make a compelling argument.” He smiles, though it falls when his phone rings. 

There are only two ways Hell communicates with their agents above ground: crawling up from the Earth and telephones. Crowley once suggested email, simply because that was easier to ignore, but Beelzebub waved it off. Too confusing, they said. 

Right now, Crowley is further disappointed in their decision, for he would love nothing more than to ignore this message. 

He could let the phone go to voicemail. But, doing so risked a face-to-face conversation. Thus, he rises from the chair with a groan and retrieves the phone from his pocket. Though the screen reads ‘No Caller ID,’ he prepares for Hastur’s voice on the other end. 

He lets the phone ring two more times before answering,  “Hell freezing over without me?” 

“Crowley.” Hastur bites. “You liar.”

“Which lie would you be referring to?”

“You said you gave the child to the Americans.”

“Yeah?”

“How long did you think you could keep this secret?”

Crowley knows fear. He was acquainted with the way it digs its claws into his chest and prevents him from running. Despite feeling it’s talons, Crowley doesn’t let himself freeze. “You’re implying I misled you on the location of the family?”

“I know you have!” Hastur snaps, “The family you left him with are English, not American.”

“Common mistake.” Crowley’s words are spoken through a tight jaw. “All I have to do is find the right family, then.”

“Lucky for you, we already have.” Fear wraps around his throat now; not strangling, but tight enough to ensure it’s known. “You are to go to Tadfield and find the child. He’s been named Jude Young.”

Crowley believed himself prepared for Hell’s wrath; for his clever plan to be discovered and punishment delivered. He had excuses under his tongue.  

He was not prepared for the visual of that wrath falling upon his neighbors, instead. 

Hastur answers Crowley’s silence with harsh laughter, “Or are these instructions too difficult to follow, as well?”

“Of course not.” Crowley bites back a hiss in his words. His following string of words flood out, for he feels fear squeezing tighter, “Tadfield, Jude Young. Easy. Goodbye, Hastur.” He hangs up in a flurry. “Bastards.” 

Behind him, Adam - having since finished his breakfast - happily exclaims: “Bastards!”

Fear retracts its claws at his voice, and Crowley turns to Adam in humorous surprise. “Of all the words I say, that’s what you choose to repeat?” He asks. 

“Repeat?” Aziraphale’s voice carries from the staircase as he descends. “Did he speak? Did I miss it?” 

Adam lights up when the angel rounds the threshold of the kitchen. “Bastards!”

“I didn’t teach him that.” Crowley defends. “He just overheard me and -“

“He spoke!” Aziraphale’s smile is blinding as lifts Adam from the highchair to hold him close, “Oh, my dear boy, you’ve spoken!” 

And Crowley, not wanting to push his luck, shuts up and enjoys the sight. 

~

That night, after Adam’s settled to bed, Aziraphale and Crowley both think of lies to be alone. 

Crowley mutters something about the Bentley and a wash, to which Aziraphale nods and toys with the idea of rearranging the books on his shelves - again. Neither think too hard about the other’s excuse. Their minds are preoccupied with formulating a plan. Despite being apart, they come to the same solution to their problems. 

At eleven twenty-three that evening in Soho, Sargent Shadwell gets two simultaneous phone calls. 

He rolls from his cot with an ache in his head and bitterness in his bones, and shuffles to the telephone in the hall. He’s surprised he reaches it before Madame Tracy does; though it’s likely she’s with a “customer,” this late in the night. 

“Do you have any bloody idea what time it is?”

“Hello, Mr. Shadwell.” A chipper voice greets. Ah , he thinks, the Southern Pansy. “This is Aziraphale-“

“I know who you are.”

“Right.” He can hear the way Aziraphale adjusts his posture, shifting from one foot to the next. “I need to request your assistance.”

Aziraphale’s voice is drowned by an insistent beeping; another caller on the line. “Hold that thought.” Shadwell says, and clicks to the second line. “Do you have any bloody idea what time it is?” He tells them. 

“Well aware.” Crowley’s voice responds. “There’s something I need you to do.”

Well, aren’t I popular, Shadwell smiles. “Of course. Hold.” He returns to Aziraphale just as Crowley begins to voice protest. “What do you need?”

“Ah, good! Might seem a strange request, but I need another pair of eyes.”

“Aye?”

“Yes, eyes. I need someone to watch a little town called Tadfield, and just inform me if anything...odd, happens.”

“You in trouble?” Shadwell asks. 

“Not yet.” Aziraphale says. 

“Right. Well, I’ll see who is available.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shadwell. Have a good night.”

Aziraphale hangs up before Shadwell can grumble out a goodbye. 

“Who do you think you are, leaving me on hold like that!” Crowley snaps when Shadwell clicks back to his line. 

“Had a kinder offer on the line.”

Crowley tsks, but wastes little time declaring his order, “I need someone to watch my back.”

“You’re in trouble.” Shadwell states. 

“Possibly.”

 “It’ll cost extra then, putting my men in the line of danger.”

“You know I can pay.”

“That I do. When do you need them.”

Crowley gives the question pause, as though he hadn’t thought that part through. “A decade. Maybe a year before. I can handle myself until then.”

“Ten years?” Shadwell repeats, “How much shit have you gotten yourself into, lad?”

“A bit more than usual.”

Shadwell, despite himself, chuckles. “I know that tone. ‘Bout a girl, innit?”

Crowley, again, gives the question pause. “I’ll keep in touch.” He hangs up.

~

Two weeks into the bitter cold of November, Crowley surprises Aziraphale when he arrives home from another “business” trip. 

It’s not his arrival, exactly, which is surprising. It’s rather his hair, or the length of it. Aziraphale is certainly use to Crowley trying new styles with each century, but the mop of hair he’d kept since the late nineties was one Aziraphale had, admittedly, grown a bit fond of. 

“Your hair.” Is his first comment when Crowley saunters into the living room. 

“You don’t like it?” He asks, as though his confidence in the new look hinges on the angel’s approval. 

Aziraphale shakes the question off. “Oh, no! I do! It’s just...new. That’s all.”

“New.” Crowley repeats. His fingers brushed against the freshly shaved sides, shaping up to a bit of a point at the top. Aziraphale’s own fingers twitch. 

“It suits you.” He offers a smile. Crowley almost returns it, hiding it in the tilt of his head and roll of his shoulders. 

“Well. Thank you.” He replies, then cuts off Aziraphale’s incoming praise, “Don’t get sappy. I can thank people, demons have manners.”

Crowley disappears upstairs, muttering something or the other about a nap, and Aziraphale wonders if the fluttering of his chest will fade by the time dusk settles on the horizon. 

It does not. 

~

In the following months, Adam begins to communicate more vocally with Aziraphale and Crowley, though stays publicly comfortable with signals and noises. He shifts between calling them ‘mum’ or ‘dad,’ though neither correct him or seem to mind, until they’re unsure as to who he’s referring to. 

When Adam is two he starts calling Aziraphale ‘angel,’ much to Crowley’s amusement. 

“It’s cute, now . But people may find it odd if he’s still calling me that when he’s older.” Aziraphale argues one evening, his voice carrying from their bedroom to Adam’s as he preps for the play-date with Adam and Jude set for ten minutes. It would be the first time Deidre would see the inside of their home and Aziraphale wouldn’t say he was nervous. He was anxious, high-strung, easily alarmed. But not nervous. The most he had expressed this to Crowley was an off-hand comment on the lack of decor around the home, two weeks back. Crowley responded by placing potted plants in nearly every corner of the house.

“I don’t see the fuss.” Crowley calls back. He had offered to dress Adam; and he’s still doing so, technically. He’s taking baby steps, quite literally, by holding Adam’s hands and helping him take steps towards the changing table. “I call you angel all the time.”

“That’s different!” Aziraphale exasperates, cuffing the sleeves of his jacket. Satisfied with his look, he swiftly makes his way to Adam’s room - and nearly runs into Crowley at the doorway, a sharp-dressed Adam in his arms. 

Aziraphale makes a startled noise in the back of his throat.

“How’s it different?” Crowley asks. Despite their close proximity, neither take a step back. Perhaps you should , Aziraphale Minor tells Crowley.

What if you didn’t , Aziraphale asks himself. It’s a brief thought. One he shoves down. “It’s different,” He says again, “when it comes from you.”

There’s a knock at the front door, and Aziraphale promptly leaves to answer.

~

Though Aziraphale softly complains about the encouragement of the nickname, he doesn’t scold or attempt to sway Adam away from using it, either. It’s rather cute when a two-year old calls you ‘angel.’ After another year, the name simply sticks.

When it comes to Crowley, Adam still swaps between gendered pronouns. However, despite their best efforts to defer such language, Adam will frequently refer to Crowley simply as ‘Bastard.’ It’s funny, in Crowley’s honest opinion. In another honest opinion, he prefers it to the name the townsfolk have given him: Doctor. 

Tadfield is a small town, but not small enough to lack a local hospital. In spite of this, individuals still come to his doorstep with requests for medicine or advice. And Crowley, who has prevented this body from discorporating by pure luck, closes the door on all of them. 

The first time Adam falls ill, they resort to the hometown clinic rather than their knowledge of the human body. While there, Crowley does take time to learn through silent observation. 

The next time the older man who runs the ice cream shop comes to his doorstep with complaints of his hip, Crowley’s first question is whether he uses ice or heat. Ice, the man answers. Alternate cold and heat, Crowley responds. 

A girl two streets over asks for the best remedy for a sore throat. Honey tea , Crowley tells her. When she tells him they don’t have any honey, she leaves the doorstep with a jar-full.

One day, a woman he doesn’t recognize stands on their porch. She’s pretty in the traditional sense, with dark smooth skin and thick, natural hair. 

“I’m told you’re a doctor.” She says. There’s a small girl in her arms, no older than Adam. Crowley - for the first time - accepts a patient. 

Aziraphale takes it upon himself to offer the woman tea, to which she accepts, as Crowley sits besides the little girl she’s brought along. She’s not quite curled in on herself, but she is closing herself off, with her arms wound tight around her. She does look ill - eyes drooping with fatigue and cheeks paler than the rest of her face. Worst yet, Crowley hadn’t a clue what to do. Most people who came to him only got advice, not real medicine. 

“What’s your name?” He asks her, trying to ease the tension he saw etched in her shoulders. 

“I don’t have to tell you. You’re a strange man.” Her voice is hoarse, and he’s not sure honey tea will do much to fix it. 

“Your mom’s raising you smart.” He offers a smile, then a hand. “I’m Crowley.”

She looks at him for a moment, then to her mother in the kitchen with Aziraphale. Cautiously, she uncrosses her arms to take his hand. “Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. You can call me Pepper.” She says. 

“A pleasure.” He gives her one solid shake, then rises from the couch. “I’ll be right back, Pepper.”

He enters the kitchen just as Pepper’s mother bursts into a fit of laughter; thanks to Aziraphale, judging by his smile. 

“Angel,” He says, “come help me.”

Aziraphale excuses himself with a nod and steps up to Crowley’s side. 

“She’s sweet.” Aziraphale starts, as Crowley busies himself with pouring what remains in Aziraphale’s tea kettle to a small cup. “They moved here a month ago, her and-“

“Pepper.” Crowley adds a dab of honey, “We just acquainted ourselves. I need you to bless this tea.” He speaks low, even though Pepper and her mother are a room away. Aziraphale doesn’t look surprised at the request. He is, however, hesitant. “What?”

“It's been a while since I’ve had to perform a miracle.” Aziraphale whispers, “What if Upstairs notices, what if they ask?”

“Then we lie.” Crowley’s tone is rather ‘matter-of-fact.’ Aziraphale, though still weighing the cons, snaps his fingers. “Thank you, dear.” Crowley says rather thoughtlessly. 

He plucks the cup off the counter and hurries back to the living room. He doesn't notice the way Aziraphale’s eyes widen, nor the quick intake of breath when the term of endearment registers. 

Pepper and her mother have remained on the couch, so he bends a knee in front of the five year old and offers the tea. She wrinkles her nose in a similar fashion to Adam when they’d begun giving him real food. 

“What’s in it?” She asks. 

“It’s tea, with a dab of honey for your throat.” He says, before dropping his voice to a mocked whisper, “And a pinch of magic to make you feel better.”

Interest flashes in her eyes, but she still looks to her mother for approval before accepting the cup. When Pepper and her mother leave - no less than five minutes later - Pepper has a skip in her step and color back in her cheeks.

~

That isn’t the last time they see Pepper, of course. School begins the following fall, and Deidre helps them sign Adam up for classes. 

Aziraphale and Crowley had discussed - albeit very briefly - homeschooling Adam. But, given that their memories weren’t unequivocally reliable, the fact that they only knew of historical events they took part in or witnessed, and their lack of competency in math, school was deemed a more appropriate option. 

Adam is enrolled as Adam Crowley-Fell, as his guardians couldn’t decide on a single “last” name to give him the night before. He and Jude meet Pepper the first day of school, coincidentally unaware their families had crossed paths before. 

They also meet two young boys, Brian and Wensleydale, of whom no one in the entire school refers to by first name. The five become quick friends that first day at break, and are inseparable by the end of the week. 

Grand adventures expand from the schoolyard to front yards. Break becomes weekend visits; weekends become daily after school gatherings; after school becomes sleepovers. 

Adam, much to Crowley’s surprise and Aziraphale’s blessing, adapts to the routines quick enough - homework first, then play, then dinner, then more play. He behaves normally. He acts like a child. Which means somewhere along the line, they did something right. 

Until a month into Adam’s third year. Crowley is six feet under when Aziraphale receives the call, his usual chipper mood grew somber from the moment the school hung up to Crowley’s return thirty minutes later. 

They’d met Adam’s teacher once; a parent-teacher night was mandatory before the summer had ended. Even so, she’s not all sun-bright smiles as she had been when they’d first met.

“A fight?” Crowley repeats, slouched rather unprofessionally in the hard, plastic chair provided. He certainly can’t be comfortable like that, Aziraphale thinks, having to consistently refocus his gaze from his partner to the teacher across the desk. 

“Yes. Adam says the other boy started it, but witnesses say he did make it physical.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale mutters under his breath. “We’re terribly sorry. We never taught him to react violently to-“

“Did he deserve it?”

Adam’s teacher, understandably, gives Crowley’s question a moment to register. “Pardon?”

“The other boy,” Crowley states, “did he deserve it? Some people deserve to get punched.”

“Crowley.”

“I don’t think any child deserves to be attacked in the hallway for any reason.” His teacher frowns. “Regardless of why, Adam did throw the first hit. The school’s giving him a three-day suspension.”

“Three days?” Aziraphale repeats, “What about projects?”

“Jude Young has already offered to bring handouts and homework to Adam until he’s returned.”

“I see.” Aziraphale nods politely. His gaze, once again, travels Crowley’s way. It takes the long way, up his slender thigh to his hips - Lord almighty, why does he insist on wearing pants that tight? - then up his chest, before finally reaching their destination. He cannot read the demon’s expression, he’s doing a fine job of remaining neutral. “We’ll absolutely speak with Adam. Thank you.”

Aziraphale rises, waiting for Crowley to slink up to his side. Adam is waiting outside the classroom for them, his backpack tucked between his knees. Jude is besides him, going on about a story he and Brian created during lunch. Adam doesn’t say much of anything; he doesn’t show any sign he’s even listening to Jude. When Aziraphale exits the classroom, both boys look to him for confirmation that it’s time to return home. 

They receive it in a gentle nod. 

The drive is quiet all the way back to Tadfield, to Jude’s house, to their own. Adam excuses himself to his room immediately, and Aziraphale gives him ten minutes before going up to initiate a talk. Crowley gives them another ten before he joins them. 

Rather than invite himself in, he intends to wait at the door and wait for Aziraphale requested his aid. Rather, Aziraphale is at the threshold. It’s unclear if he’d gone inside yet. 

When he senses Crowley behind him, he takes a step back to speak in some privacy. 

“He hasn’t said anything.” The angel whispers. “I don’t want to force him to talk but. He hasn’t even looked at me, Crowley.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Drawing. I can’t see what.”

Crowley hums, then seems to make a consideration before walking around Aziraphale and into their boy’s bedroom. 

He doesn’t say anything to Adam, and Adam returns the silence. His weight sinks into the mattress but it doesn’t halt Adam’s progression on paper. Crowley waits two agonizing minutes before Adam lifts his eyes up, just for a moment. It’s enough for Crowley to lock on. “Adam,” He starts, “may I see your pencil?” The boy's brow furrows, but he obliges and hands his writing utensil over. Crowley rolls it between his thumbs and forefingers. “I could do a lot of things with this pencil.” He says, “I could draw a nice picture. Or,” He curls his fingers around the pencil, into a fist, “I could stab someone with the end of it. But in the end, it’s still just a pencil.”

He offers the utensil back to Adam, who takes it back with a bit of hesitation. “Now, someone could tell me to draw one picture. But I may choose to draw another. One I want.” He continues, “But, no matter what we do with it, it’s still just a pencil. A tool. What matters is who uses it, and how. And no matter how you want to use this tool, we’ll be here for you.” Adam’s eyes flicker between Crowley, the pencil, his bed sheets. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Slowly, with pursed lips, Adam nods. 

Aziraphale watches from the doorway, shuffling through emotion after emotion and trying to shove it all down. He’d never seen Crowley be cruel to Adam, but at most the demon will give off the aura of tolerance. He was never soft, like this. He’d never heard Crowley speak in such a quiet, smooth tone before. Except, he realizes, he has. 

I can give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.

Aziraphale has turned that offer away. He’d been scared; scared of what Crowley intended to do with the holy water, scared Heaven would find what he’d done. Scared, too, of the way Crowley’s expression had shifted. Scared of how he’d felt since the bombs fell, after their hands had just barely brushed when transferring the books. 

In a few decades he’d managed to wrangle that emotion back down to an occasional nagging feeling at the back of his mind. Now, watching Crowley comfort their child - because Adam is theirs, as “God” fathers or otherwise - that feeling is being wrenched up once again. 

He takes small, shuffling steps into the room, though he doesn’t quite leave the threshold of the door. He doesn’t want to disrupt the semblance of peace, here. Crowley looks to him only briefly, and Aziraphale notes a line of stress having coiled around his shoulders release. 

“We’re here for you.” Crowley reiterates, bringing his attention back to Adam, who simply nods again.

He brings the pencil to his paper again, and Aziraphale bites back a frown. They couldn’t force Adam to talk, of course. But the child’s sudden bout of violence worries him immensely. It seems to worry Crowley, too. 

“Oliver said you were fairies.” Adam’s words are almost muddled under the shuffling of sheets as Crowley shifts to get off the bed. Almost. 

“What?” Aziraphale is at the bedside in quick strides, “Who’s Oliver?”

“He sits behind me.” Adam doesn’t lift his eyes from his drawing, pencil moving to make light shades around his shapes. “His dad told him you were fairies. He said his dad is always right. Then said I must be one, too, if you’re my dads. So, I called him a bastard. And hit him.”

Aziraphale sees Adam’s eyes brim red before the tears even begin rising. He rests besides the boy, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Adam falls into the embrace, hand relinquishing the pencil to grip Aziraphale’s sleeve. 

“Am I a bad person?” The question comes out in a hiccupped sob. Aziraphale must show his heartbreak in his expression, for Crowley lifts a hand as if, perhaps, to offer Aziraphale comfort. But he decides sympathy was the angel’s forte, because he sets it back down and keeps his words lodged in his throat. 

“No, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, resting his chin atop soft, brown hair, “you made a mistake. One mistake doesn’t make someone bad. Just means…” He trails off, catching Crowley’s eyes. It lasts for maybe one second, or two. 

If there were a time to tell him, they seem to agree, it would be now. 

Aziraphale parts his mouth, the truth on his tongue. “...It just means you’re human.” He says instead. 

Crowley doesn’t seem to be upset, or disappointed, or even confused. There’s understanding, acceptance. 

With that expression, Aziraphale wonders how many decades he’ll need to forget it, this time. 

They let Adam cry until Aziraphale’s shirt is nearly soaked before the angel miracles the child into a peaceful sleep. 

“I didn’t know you could be so good with kids.” Aziraphale tells Crowley, shuttling the door as softly as he could. 

Crowley doesn’t say anything more than a hum. “You’re a good dad.” The compliment slips out, really. A thought he should have pushed down, which slipped by the hundreds more he was wrangling. 

For once, Crowley doesn’t correct ‘godfather .’ 

He keeps his eyes on Adam’s door, and nods, “We are.” 

~

For Adam and Jude’s eighth birthday, Aziraphale offers to host the party, rather than the Young’s again. 

Of course, there are complications. Aziraphale finds that, for all his blessings and power, he cannot seem to bake a cake from scratch. 

“An interesting design.” Crowley comments, head tilting sideways in tandem with the blue-iced cake. “Are we going for a Leaning Tower theme this year?”

“I don’t understand why this is so difficult.” Aziraphale places his hands on his hips, and Crowley doesn’t let his gaze linger there. Instead, it travels to Aziraphale’s face, where cake batter and icing decorate his cheeks, forehead, hair. It’s an amusing image, how it all must have happened. 

“Couldn’t you just,” Crowley snaps his fingers, “miracle it to be stable?”

“I don’t want to have to miracle what should be an easy task.” He huffs. Slowly, ever so slowly, the cake begins to droop towards the table until it falls, rather un-climatically, to the floor. 

And Crowley, most certainly, doesn’t laugh. It was more of a chuckle, if you’d asked him. “I think you did a wonderful job.”

“I’m angry!” Aziraphale groans. Then, after a beat, his sorrow mood brightens. “Oh.” He says, “I’m angry.”

“Have you never been?” Crowley asks. 

“I’ve been annoyed before. With you .” Aziraphale corrects. “Never angry, though.” 

Crowley smiles. “Well. Congratulations on this new development.” He steps around the splatter that had once been a possibly-edible dessert. With a flick of his wrist, the mess disappears. “I think you should miracle a cake together.” He says, eyeing the mixture of blue and chocolate against Aziraphale’s cheek. “And perhaps fix yourself up, too.”

Instinctively, Aziraphale reaches towards his face with icing-covered hands, further instigating the mess. Crowley moves with little thought, his thumb brushing across a cheekbone to rid solidifying batter. 

He feels Aziraphale stiffen under the action, and he freezes as common sense catches up to him. 

They’ve done this dance before - subconsciously growing too close yet not enough at once. Neither make motion to step away or forward. It’s almost torturous for both parties involved. They stay stuck until there’s an interruption; usually Adam, or Crowley’s phone, a chime in the wind beckoning Aziraphale. Now, it’s the door, just barely holding back five excited, hungry children. 

Crowley flinches back and Aziraphale swallows. 

“I’ll miracle a cake.” He snaps his fingers as Crowley mutely walks to the door. 

The rest of the party, for the most part, goes much smoother. They meet Brian and Wensleydale's parents and avoid questions of their own relationship as the children play in the garden. 

Aziraphale excuses himself to the yard after Crowley leaves to partake in a game the children explicitly state he is required to play. 

Apart from muffled youthful laughter, Tadfield is quiet today. The weather is too hot for many to enjoy long walks, as they do in autumn, and incoming dark clouds are dissuading others from spending too long outside. 

It’s evenings like these Aziraphale thinks he’ll miss the most, come three years. 

“A storm’s coming.” Deidre joins his side, two cups of tea in her hand. He takes the one she offers. 

“I’m sure everyone will be well on their way home before the rain.” He says. Deidre nods as she lifts her cup to her lips. Jude’s shrieking laughter reaches their ears. 

“...They’re getting big, aren’t they?” Deidre grins, “Feel like they’re gonna be off to dances the next time I blink.” 

Aziraphale, despite himself, laughs. Yet, something uncomfortable settled in his chest afterwards. 

He’d never considered their life beyond the next three years. Eleven years was the deal. Either Adam destroys the world then, or he doesn’t. 

And what if he doesn’t?

Heaven and Hell wouldn’t let them continue like this. They’d find out sooner rather than later. They would tear the family apart. 

But what if they didn’t?  

The questions haunt him for the rest of the evening. 

The Young’s leave their home just as the first droplets of rain begin to dot the cobblestone roads of Tadfield. 

Crowley tucks Adam asleep an hour later. Harsh winds and beat of rain against his windowpane don't seem to disrupt the boy’s slumber. 

As Crowley starts down the hall towards his own room and the seduction of sleep, a melody he doesn’t recognize echoes up from the living room. 

Below, Aziraphale has placed a vinyl in the record player he’d brought from the bookshop, two years ago. 

It’s certainly not a record he owned, and the lack of Queen cancelled out Crowley’s collection too.

No, this vinyl had been a gift from Deidre and Arthur. After Arthur had seen it for the first time, he’d grown ecstatic about the old music player, offering his father’s old collections in exchange that he may partake in listening along. 

This record wasn’t a piece of that collection. Deidre had said it was a gift from her father-in-law, for this record had their wedding song.

That was what Aziraphale was playing now, as he attempted to teach himself to dance. Arms outstretched with an invisible partner, Crowley watches from the staircase as Aziraphale watches his steps, desperately attempting to find the tempo and match the movements. 

“I thought angel’s don’t dance?” Crowley asks, just loud enough for Aziraphale’s ears. The angel stumbles a bit at his voice, but returns to position to start again. 

“I want to be able to teach him one day.” He barely whispers back. “Imagine if we sent him to dances not knowing how to? He’d be embarrassed.”

Crowley’s delighted smile falters at the mention of dances. An event like that was well past three years. Had Aziraphale forgotten why they were here? Who Adam’s real father was? There would likely be no more songs or dancing in a few years. 

He watches Aziraphale stumble over his feet again, still mismatching the tempo, and decides to burn the bridge when they come to it. 

“I think you need a partner to actually learn to do it properly.” Aziraphale all but spins on his heel at Crowley’s words. The demon shrugs. “Only thing worse than not knowing how to dance, is knowing how to dance poorly.”

Aziraphale waits for Crowley to cross into the living room before he reacts to the offer. He resumes his position, hands outstretched for Crowley to take.

Now, he didn’t necessarily know how to dance, either. But he understood the gist. He’d seen movies. 

He puts Aziraphale’s left hand on his shoulder, grasps his right, and places his left hand on the angel’s waist. Aziraphale doesn’t blush. He can’t. Yet if he could, he wonders just how red his face would be, now. 

The rain becomes vigorous outside their windows, battering against their home. But inside, they are warm, and safe, and stepping on each other’s toes as the music drowns out the world. 

They never do find its tempo, but instead find their own. Though they are two beats behind, they move fluidly; knowing the other’s next step, next turn, next smile. 

They don’t say much besides apologies and quick praise for the duration of the song, but as the final beat fades out and the world howls in, it becomes clear they wouldn't know where to start.

They won’t say anything, of course. Their bodies may lean closer, they may tilt their heads just so, beckoning to the other. And Crowley may hold Aziraphale’s hip tighter. And Aziraphale may reach to lift Crowley’s glasses off his head. And they may hold the other’s hand in a white-knuckled grasp, squeezing for the little push they both need. 

But it will end there. 

They can’t, not now. Their focus cannot be anywhere but Adam. The world hinges on them. 

So they’ll part, releasing clothes and glasses and, last, their hands. But in the breath between them lies a promise:

Once this is done, whether we succeed or we fail, maybe there can be a time for us. 

Chapter Text

A strange woman arrives in Tadfield at approximately eleven forty-six in the morning.

She brings an array of strange devices with her belongings: tools, a book, and red string for connecting dots.

There’s a rather excited buzz rippling through the town after she visits the local market. She doesn’t buy anything incredibly suspicious; it’s rather her interrogation of the residents that starts talking. 

“Have you noticed anything strange recently?”

“Did something odd come to town a few years ago?”

“Any bizarre, unexplained events?”

And the residents of Tadfield who undoubtedly had one odd, yet polite family come to mind, all shake their heads apologetically. 

~

“I heard she’s a witch.” Pepper says, when the Them turn to her for a theoretical answer. It isn’t the most ridiculous answer they had. Brian suggested she was an alien. 

“A witch?” Brian repeats, “From who?”

“Whom.” She corrects, ”I didn’t hear it from any one. It just seems obvious. She’s weird.”

“Actually, she’s American.” Wensleydale replies. 

“Yeah? Americans are weird.” Jude’s voice travels down from one of the many low-hanging oak branches he’d chosen to balance upon; harnessing the bravery he believes a soon-to-be eleven year old should display. 

The group had found their little grove a year ago, nearly to the day. In that year they’d managed to transform it, adding old toys and crafting chairs or swings from aging, moss-covered bark. Vines, clover and imagination were nurtured and thrived here. 

“Would it matter if she was a witch?” Adam questions from his makeshift throne. 

However, one could argue it wasn’t a throne any more than it was the decrepit remains of a tree which had fallen decades ago. But with the help of Adam’s creativity, it was sturdy enough to seat a king. 

“Of course!” Pepper states. “Witches eat children. Didn’t your dads tell you that? Hansel and Gretal?”

Adam shakes his head, brows furrowing. Above him, Jude hooks his legs around the branch and swings down besides Adam’s head. “Hey,” He mutters, whilst Brian and Pepper begin arguing over which version of their parents' Hansel and Gretal story was the real one, “did you ask your dads if you can stay over?”

“Not yet.” Adam whispers back. 

“My mum can call ‘em.” Jude offers, to which Adam shakes his head. 

“I can do it. They’re gonna say yes, anyway.”

“You also think they’ll say yes to a dog.” Jude’s words trail a bout of laughter behind them. “My parents won’t give me fish! Why would yours give you a dog?”

“Angel is easy to persuade.” Adam smiles, “Plus, I mean, I have been leaving hints.”

Adams “hints” consisted of pestering Crowley with an abundant amount of questions: How many breeds are there? How much do they cost? I think the garden is plenty big to run ‘round in, don’t you?

Crowley only ever replied with a question of his own: Why?

“Oi!” Pepper beckons the boy’s attention, “Aren’t you worried about this witch?”

“‘Course we are!” Leaves crunch under Jude’s weight as he swings down from his hideaway, “If there is a witch in our town, we should do something about it.”

“Actually, people use to burn witches,” Wensleydale says, “like in Salem.”

“Angel says we shouldn’t hurt people,” Adam rises from his throne, “but Dad says it’s okay, if I have a really good reason.”

“I think eating children is a good enough reason.” Jude defends. 

With a moment of thought, Adam agrees with his second-in-command, and like good soldiers, the Them form their own witch-hunting party. 

They spend the rest of the evening trying to decide how one correctly finds and disposes of a witch. 

~

Meanwhile, a “real” witch-finder once again found himself jumping between two phone calls, informing the men on the other end that there were no witches, nor any supernatural entities for that matter, in Tadfield.

“I assure you, Mr. Crowley,” Shadwell explains, “I have one of my best men stationed there. If he’d seen anyone strange wanderin’ ‘bout, he woulda given me a ring.”

Crowley wouldn’t consider himself an expert in the art of lying, but it’s not difficult to hear the way Shadwell’s voice trembles just so over the phone static. “Right.” He grits out, “Well, thank you for the update.” Shadwell is silent for a long enough period that Crowley grows uncomfortable. “What?”

“Nothin’.” Shadwell lies again. “Just think that might be the first time you’ve said thanks.”

Crowley promptly hangs up. He realized there would be high stakes when it came to his plan. But, he never considered one to be thanks rolling off his tongue so easily. He could shudder. 

Parenting, it would seem, has made him soft. 

His already-bitter mood sours further. Parenting a child who could, possibly, drive the world into flames within a week from today. 

Then, of course, would come the war. A war in which he would, inevitably, fight a being he’s spent six-thousand and eleven years falling for. 

Needless to say, Crowley has a headache. 

He presumes the plus side is that Hell - and most importantly, his boss - hasn’t caught on to his scheme. He honestly didn’t think they’d make it beyond two years. 

But now that they’re here, a realization hits Crowley like a train: he is hopelessly, utterly lost. 

He had hoped to have hundreds of backup plans - and backup plans to those backup plans - should everything go sideways. Most of them, he suspects, would have involved running away. 

He had also hoped there would be no need for them; that Adam wouldn’t succumb to whatever fate Lords above and below had meticulously pieced together for him. 

And he had hoped, at the very least, Shadwell would have more information. Just something he could work off, something he could plan around. 

Eleven years to prepare for the weekend, and Crowley only has Hope. 

He prays it may be enough. 

~

The air in Tadfield has shifted, and Aziraphale can’t quite pinpoint why. 

He attributes it to nerves, either from the rumors of the strange American in the cottage up the hill, or Shadwell’s lack of information on her.

When Crowley arrives home an hour before dinner is to be set, the answer is transcribed in the downturn of his lips. 

“The hellhound is to be sent tomorrow.” He says, then: “Would you like to go on a walk?”

~

The night Adam was brought to Earth, it had been storming. 

The forecast for this week is clear, with an overcast of irony. 

Stars are just beginning to peek through a pink-tinted sky, the setting sun siholletting leaves with autumn-kissed tips. Aziraphale absentmindedly calls the sight breathtaking, and Crowley just nods in reply.

The breeze which curves through the trees brings a comforting sting to Aziraphale’s cheeks and muses Crowley’s hair. Crowley doesn’t seem bothered by it, his mind elsewhere.

They keep pace with each other on the thin, dirt path which stretches through their woods. Adam and his friends often disappear into these trees, but he always arrives home just before supper, so Aziraphale rarely frets. These woods are peaceful, anyway. They feel loved. 

“...How’s Hell?” Aziraphale breaks their mutual silence. Crowley wouldn’t be able to confess if the laugh which escapes him was genuine or of surprise. 

“They still don’t know, if that’s what you’re asking.” He keeps they’re suspicious though, to himself. “How’s Heaven?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale unclasps his hands from behind his back, only to fidget with them a moment later. “Last I spoke with Gabriel, they still assumed I was trying to find Tadfield.” 

“Good.” Crowley’s reply brings silence most of their conversations seem to carry since that night. They haven’t yet spoken about what it all meant. 

Aziraphale wonders whether the reason is of fear on his end, or his partners’. “Has, um.” He attempts, his pause drawing Crowley’s gaze from the path outstretched before them. “Has Adam been asking you about a dog, too?”

“Consistently.” Crowley smiles for just a moment, though it’s gone a second after. “And he may get one.”

“Tomorrow. Right.” Aziraphale frowns. “I haven’t been able to stop,” He pauses, “...thinking.” 

Crowley hums, but Aziraphale hears me either, hidden within. 

The air briefly rushes between them, though long enough to relieve a tree above of its leaves. It draws Aziraphale’s attention, but Crowley’s remains firmly on him. The sight is almost picturesque: Aziraphale tucked in a white coat and blue scarf stands out amongst an autumn-painted woodland background. He looks, well, ethereal. 

No, he thinks, more than that.

He looks stunning. He’s gorgeous. And Crowley once again greets the upsetting reality that moments like these may be gone, come a few days. 

They’re running out of time. 

He’s running out of time. 

“Angel...” He starts, though his voice trails off and leaves an unanswered question hanging in the air between them. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompts. 

Crowley releases a slow breath. “You...I -“ His phone rings loud enough to disturb a robin three trees down. Just my luck. He digs into his jean pocket, scowling at the Unknown Caller lighting up the screen. “I have to take this.”

Aziraphale asks no questions. He smiles, takes Crowley’s free hand, and gives a gentle squeeze. “I’ll see you at home.” He says, then turns back down the path they’d come. Crowley involuntarily flexes his hand when it’s released. 

The phone continues to ring until Aziraphale is a silhouette among trees. Only then does Crowley answer.

“I’m quite busy, you know.” He speaks before Hastur has the chance, “End of the world, and all.”

“We know.” Hastur hisses down the line. “Though I loathe to pull you away from such important business, there’s someone who desperately wants to speak with you.” 

“They can’t wait until the world’s ashen?” Hastur doesn’t bite back nor interrupt as Crowley impatiently expects. Rather, Hastur doesn’t reply at all. 

“Oh, Crowley.” 

If Crowley had blood, he thinks it would have frozen in his veins. A deep vibrato which instills a primal fear in both human and celestial alike. 

“Lucifer.” Crowley, by some miracle or another, keeps his voice steady. 

“How long has it been? Eleven years, since we’ve spoken directly?”

“Nearly. Will be exact tomorrow.”

“Yes. Which is why I wish to see you, Crowley.” 

One would think over six-thousand years would be plenty of time to grow accustomed to Hell and it’s many tricks.

But for the ground to crack beneath your feet and swallow you down, well. Crowley hopes he’ll never become familiar with his metaphorical heart leaping into his throat, suffocating any yelp or scream which dare escape. 

A millennium of mankind’s artwork and film depictions don’t truly do Lucifer justice. There’s the vision commonplace in medieval paintings of him - cardinal skin, curled horns, twisting tail and all. Crowley witnessed him become, during the Fall. But there are rumors that what the human soul sees upon their arrival to Hell varies. For most, it is a hulking, horned beast. For some, though - or perhaps just for Crowley - he is nothing more than a man in a fitting white suit who wears calm, concentrated anger just as well. 

They’re alone, Crowley’s notes once he’s centered himself again. He doesn’t know what Heaven may look like now, but he distantly wonders if it’s anything like Lucifer’s cluttered, oppressive “office.” His boss is relaxing into an armchair which, to some souls, may display itself as the throne it truly is. Yet, the most terrifying aspect of the meeting thus far is the grin plastered unnaturally on Lucifer’s face. 

“New hairstyle?” Lucifer speaks first, dark eyes flickering up for a beat before locking gaze once more, keeping Crowley firmly in place.

“For you.” He says, keeping his answer short. Lucifer has always been able to read between Crowley’s lines; to pick apart each syllable and octave shift and wedge himself between the cracks of Crowley’s walls to break him down.

I didn’t mean to Fall.  

No, Lucifer dragged him down by the hooks he’d pierced in Crowley’s ribs.

Crowley swallows and hopes his boss is too concerned with formulating his next four moves, so he may plan his next careful shuffled step.

He dares to ask: “Is there a problem?”

“Quite the opposite.” Lucifer shifts in his seat, and the action makes Crowley’s hand twitch. “I merely wanted to congratulate you, face to face.”

“Pardon?” Lucifer’s eyes flash at Crowley’s surprised pitch.

“You were loyal to our cause all those millennia ago. And you’ve proven yourself to remain loyal, despite the hand we were dealt. Would you agree?”

Crowley’s tongue feels heavy. “Yes.”

Lucifer hums and rests his arms on the desks’ surface. “I need those I trust most to fight by my side in the incoming conflict. You, Crowley, have earned that trust. I’d like to offer you the position of Duke.”

Crowley, to his credit, doesn’t react. At least, not expressively. He suppresses the scream rising in his chest with a slow inhale. “A Duke? Me?”

“I confess, I should have offered this position to you when you sparked the Second World War. But, regardless, I’m offering it to you now. You’ll have your own army to command, alongside Hastur and Ligur.”

Crowley releases a low hiss following Lucifer’s explanation. “Well, that’s. Uhm. Thank you, but-”

“But?” Lucifer doesn’t shout, but Crowley still finds himself shaken by the interruption. 

“It’s just a lot of responsibility.” Crowley back-peddles, “The world hasn’t properly ended yet,”

“An end you helped bring about.”

“Yes.” He hisses again, then bites his tongue before continuing: “Of course. Right. But, shouldn’t I continue watching over the child, before I accept the offer? My mission isn’t finished until he’s come into his power.” Lucifer watches him ramble, calm anger altering micro expressions which Crowley can’t help but notice. “Can I sleep on it?” He finally settles.

“Sleep on it.” Lucifer repeats. “That implies you may turn me down, Crowley.”

“Or that you may rescind the offer.” He argues, “I still have a week to muck things up.”

Lucifer looks away from Crowley for the first time since his arrival. Crowley takes that moment to swallow. 

He rises from his chair and takes leisurely steps around the desk. Crowley has considered the version of Satan he sees now to be a mask. He knew the angel before he Fell, remembers what he looked like almost as vividly as the image after the crash. But that terrifying image, burnt holy skin and hateful eyes, would at least be easier to read than the man before him now.

“All right.” Lucifer doesn’t so much invade Crowley’s space as give him just enough room to breathe. He does that often, too; makes promises that he just falls short of keeping. “Sleep on it. But do not keep me waiting. And best not give me reason to rescind.”

Lucifer offers his hand. Crowley, foolish as the first time, takes it.

Claustrophobia falls open to a colored sky and cool breeze. Crowley remains where he’d been before the call, wonders if he’d physically left at all, and drags shaken feet back up the path. 

There are two thoughts echoing off each other:

First, he must speak to Aziraphale.

Second, he needs a drink.

~

There are aspects of Crowley’s life that Aziraphale will never be able to comprehend. It took him two centuries to come to terms with that fact. 

There are situations and decisions Aziraphale cannot imagine dealing with which Crowley has confronted time and time again. Just as there are acts Crowley cannot grasp which come as easy as breathing to himself.

Despite accepting these terms, there are still days Aziraphale wishes he could, at the very least, understand. If only to bring offer comfort or ease to his friend. Their walk earlier today had been one of those times. To leave Crowley to deal with Hell’s wrath, no matter what it may be, will never sit right. There are Hellish customs he - hopefully - will never understand, just as there are human customs he can barely wrap his head around.

Doorbells, for example. Aziraphale never locks their door; there was even a time where it was expected to offer your home to any who wish to bring you company. Deidre is one of the few people in Tadfield who cannot grasp that - she insists she’d feel rude, ‘barging’ into their home unannounced. Regardless, when he hears the doorbell’s echo it prompts a slight grin to his lips.

Deidre, you know you’re never a bother, dies on his tongue as he swings the door open. 

“Uriel. Michael.” He sputters out. 

“Aziraphale.” Michael greets, inviting themselves in and shutting the door cautiously behind Uriel.

“I hope we aren’t intruding.” Uriel’s focus shifts to the decorum of the home. Uriel’s observations make him more nervous than Michael’s burning gaze; there are no photos in the home, no obvious signs of Crowley’s presence. Even still, if Uriel finds something -

“We couldn’t find you for a time. We stopped by Soho, first.” Michael says, drawing Aziraphale’s attention. Michael hasn’t moved from their spot by the door. “Couldn’t find that dusty little bookshop of yours.”

“Almost as though it never existed.” Uriel agrees. They step into the living room, eyeing the bookshelves in the corners. “Strange, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, I, uhm. Loose ends. I’m trying to tie them up down here.” Aziraphale musters a smile which lasts approximately three full seconds. “Don’t see much need to run a bookshop in the midst of a war.” Uriel hums in what Aziraphale chooses to believe is agreement. “Not that I am displeased with your, uhm, visit. But, there wouldn’t happen to be a reason for it?” He asks, “Did Gabriel send you?”

“He doesn’t know we’re here.” Michael confesses, their heels clacking once, twice across the floor towards him. Aziraphale feels trapped, despite the distance between himself and the two other angels. 

“We wanted to have a chat. Just between us.” Uriel glances over their shoulder. With a brief nod to Michael, Aziraphale finds himself pinned to the wall behind him. Michael’s fingers dig into the collar of his shirt, no doubt wrinkling the creases. 

“Oh, dear.” He mutters under his breath. “Is this necessary?”

“If you don’t cooperate.” Michael answers.

Uriel moves on from the bookshelves to the record player. They shift through the vinyls, tossing them rather unceremoniously to the floor. “Is it safe to assume whatever facade you’ve crafted here is to aid your mission to find the Anti-Christ?”

Aziraphale, had he not been pinned to the wall, may have given a more eloquent reply than a rambled, “Well, I mean, why else would I want to be here?”

“Why else indeed.” Michael applies more pressure. Aziraphale sucks in a breath. 

“Have you done it?” Uriel has the decency to step over the vinyl's left strewn.

“Done...what?” 

“Have you found the child?” Uriel clasps their hands behind them. “Do you know his name? His parents? His friends?”

“Well, I, you see-”

“How about we help.” Michael interrupts. “Jude Young.”

Aziraphale must pale, for Uriel smiles wide. “Ah. So you do know of him.”

“Can you explain, then, why we haven’t heard from you in two years?” Michael asks. Aziraphale, for the first time in his very long life, finds himself utterly speechless.

Uriel places a slight hand on Michael’s shoulder, and Aziraphale is released from their hold. “You’ll have much to answer to, come your discorporation.” Uriel states, “Or, if you’d rather we don’t tell Gabriel of your secretive lifestyle here, you could do us a favor.”

“A favor.” Aziraphale repeats more than he questions. He’s still searching for his voice in the waves of emotion presently surrounding him.

“The demon is here. We can sense him.” Michael says.

“I...I have yet to see him.” Aziraphale tries to defend.

“So find him.” Uriel leans in close, “And smite him.”

Aziraphale’s heart drops.

“Simple task.” Michael smiles, their aura calm. As if they hadn’t just threatened to uproot Aziraphale’s entire life.

“So good to have found you again, Aziraphale.” Uriel cocks their head just so, like they’re speaking to a young child. “Try not to keep secrets from us. Remember, we’re watching.” 

An empty threat, he thinks, for you would smite me here and now, had you known why I’m really here.

Their departure is more discreet than their arrival; Aziraphale blinks and they’re gone, leaving behind a gentle hush.

Aziraphale cannot leave his place in the hall, fearful that he’ll take one misstep and everything will be gone. 

But isn’t that what you agreed upon? Whether it’s today, or tomorrow, or Friday night, this will disappear, one way or another. You’re out of time. You’re out of time.

Aziraphale feels numb.

~

Aziraphale goes through the motions.

He plucks the vinyl's off the floor gingerly, afraid they may shatter in his palms. Then stands in front of the bookshelves, straightens the spines of those which Uriel had brushed blessed fingertips across.

Adam comes home, though Aziraphale doesn’t know when. Time is moving languidly, the physical world feels as though it’s just out of his reach. Adam talks, and talks, and Aziraphale nods his head at the words he hears but cannot focus on.

There’s Jude and birthday and sleepover, so Aziraphale pieces together enough of Adam’s words to reply, “Yes, my dear boy,” and “Goodbye, dear” and “I love you too.”

Aziraphale sits in the living room after Adam leaves for the Young’s home, and he waits. He doesn’t know what he waits for, until he hears the Bentley pull up to the home. His mind misses the heavy footfalls on the porch and the opening of the front door. 

He skips right ahead to Crowley standing before him, one hand stuffed in his pocket and the other gripping a wine bottle like a lifeline.

“Where is he?” 

“Jude’s house.” Aziraphale replies, “They wanted to have a sleepover. Sort of ‘party before the party,’ I suppose.”

Crowley hums, and listens to the silence which follows. 

In Soho, he relished moments of quiet in his bare apartment on an unimportant street, when the only living things he had to concern himself with were fearful, potted plants. Now, it hangs around like an uninvited stranger, unfamiliar to him. 

“How are you feeling?” The question has been pestering him for the majority of the day, unsure if he would work up the courage to present it to Aziraphale. “About tomorrow.”

“Oh,” The angel says, in a tone Crowley associates towards wanting to lie, but simply being unable to do so, “well. Rather terrified, actually.” Despite his answer, he smiles. His first one all night.

Crowley nods. Me too, he doesn’t say. “Could I tempt you,” He does say, “to a drink?”

The temptation, unsurprisingly, is accomplished. 

~

“What ‘bout the dolphins?” Crowley’s speech is slurred, but he attributes it to his position on the floor more than the alcohol in his system. He’s lying star-fished across the carpet, his vision of Aziraphale lounging on the couch twisted upside down. At some point in the evening, he had complained about the heat and stripped down to his undershirt, the top three buttons undone. It’s been a torturous few hours trying not to hyperfixate on it, if you asked Crowley.

“What about the dolphins.” Aziraphale agrees, neck craning against the couch’s arm to gaze at the white ceiling. 

“I mean, they jus’ don’t know, y’know? They don’t know the world’s gonna...gonna end.” He watches as Aziraphale nods through his revelation, lifting his wine glass for another swig. Crowley’s rant falters in his head as his eyes decide to fixate on the angels’ lips, and comes out a rather jumbled mess. “They’re jus’ ah, swimming around in th’ocean. Not a care in the world.” He makes a vague motion with his free hand, and Aziraphale lazily mimics it with his own. 

“They just want fish.” Aziraphale speaks with the confidence of a man who knows for certain a dolphin's main concern in life is, indeed, fish.  

“They just want fish!” Crowley nearly bolts upright from his position, and shifts around to face Aziraphale again. “And, come a few days, all the fish will be gone! And they won’t know why.”

Aziraphale groans when he swings his legs to the floor and stands, wobbling for a moment as gravity takes effect. 

“Well, they may not be gone.” Aziraphale argues, the optimistic bastard that he is, “If...maybe if we did something right, nothing’ll happen. That was the goal, right?” Aziraphale reaches for the wine bottle in an attempt to refill his glass. He miscalculates how much is required. Crowley watches the wine spill onto the carpet, unfazed. 

“Think we did it?” He asks, after Aziraphale has settled comfortably back into the couch. 

Aziraphale downs half his glass before providing his answer: “I’m not sure, dear. We’ll know tomorrow.”

Crowley feels his throat tighten, anxiety relentless as ever. It’s intentions are to suffocate his formulating thought, lest he speak it into existence. It fails. 

He removes his glasses from his face, as if it will make his offer more appealing. “We could leave.” He speaks with the expectancy of a lover on one knee before another. Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat, and Crowley hurries the rest of his half-baked plan. “If it all goes sideways tomorrow, we could run ‘way.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale warns as he leans to set his drink upon the nearest surface, expression already twisting towards resistance. 

“Alpha Centauri!” He exclaims, and leaves his glasses besides Aziraphale’s drink, “No one would suspect us there! We could hide. We would be safe, together-“

“Do you truly believe I could leave him?” 

Aziraphale’s question renders him speechless. The angel's gaze is towards the ground, and for that he’s grateful. If Aziraphale were to lift his pained eyes to him, Crowley would surely break. “Perhaps I’d agree with you eleven years ago. I have no desire to fight a war, again. But you cannot ask me to leave Adam now.” Aziraphale presses his hands tightly together. Like he’s praying. “From the moment you brought me that child, I was overwhelmed with love. I figured it wasn’t special. I’ve felt it since Eden. But Adam is so...so full of wonder and love, I must believe it means something. That we didn’t waste eleven years.”

Crowley shifts closer to the couch’s armrest, close enough to rest a hand on his angel’s knee. Aziraphale finally looks to him, eyes shimmering. He’s never seen Aziraphale cry, but there have been moments like this. His eyes shimmer, and his voice wavers, but tears never fall. It’s an extraordinary example of willpower. “That’s not the type of love you abandon, Crowley.”

Crowley shakes his head some to clear it. His glass refills just slightly. “...Lucifer wants to make me a Duke.” He says, swirling his wine. It nearly topples over twice. 

Aziraphale is quiet for what could range between five minutes to an hour. Time never really affected Crowley in the past, but his gut tells him the silence lingers for too long. 

“What did you say?” Aziraphale’s voice is just above a whisper, when it comes. Crowley bites the inside of his cheek. 

“Left it open. Asked to think about it.” The wine finally sloshes over the rim of the glass and onto Aziraphale’s shoe. The angel doesn’t even attempt an aborted action to avoid it. “I’m.” He starts, the beginnings of a confession bubbling up his chest. “I’m afraid.” Aziraphale shifts closer, but Crowley doesn’t dare look up. “‘M afraid of losing...this. Carrying a title like that, eyes are always on you. I’ll never be able to sneak away, or skim my way through assignments. Angel, if they find out about you and I…” 

Crowley shuts his eyes tight. His head is too heavy to filter his words. He’s already said too much, bore his burden onto Aziraphale’s already-overbearing shoulders. 

“What about us?” A defeated sigh escapes Crowley as he rises. Perhaps it’s best to drink to forget, at this point. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves Aziraphale off, reaching for the bottle. Aziraphale snatches it away just as his hands graze it’s neck. 

“What about us, Crowley?”

Crowley follows the bottle’s trajectory to Aziraphale’s chest, then unwittingly seeks out his eyes. He half-expects anger or fear to lie there; anger that Crowley didn’t reject the offer, fear that he still may accept. Instead, there’s a dash of confusion, and anticipation, and a different type of fear. 

Fear of a truth Crowley has kept so repressed, it’s more akin to a cage. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He says, reaching for the bottle again. Aziraphale lifts it further out of reach, which beckons Crowley closer. 

“You can’t lie to me.” 

This is a side of his angel that Crowley is wholly unfamiliar treading. There’s a chance this pressure might drown a more dangerous confession out. He needs to come up for air, to take a step back from Aziraphale. But unsteady feet and a hazy head tell him to stay put, even push to inch closer. 

What have you got to lose? Aziraphale Minor unhelpfully chimes in. Do you truly want to bury your secret with the world?

“‘M not lying.” He manages, “If they found out we tolerated each other, much less liked each other, they’d turn all of heaven and hell’s wrath upon us.”

Aziraphale lets out a steady breath. His eyes are surely more clear than Crowley’s own. He can’t read Aziraphale at all, in this state. 

“You think I like you?”

“You do!” Crowley bites out, finally pushing away from the couch a good three steps. “And I like you! And if they knew…” if they knew how much I adore you, how much I enjoy indulging your little temptations, how my heart swells when you laugh and it’s the closest I get to feeling holy again. “If they knew,” that I’ve memorized your profile from millennia of stolen glances, how I make any opportunity to brush against you, how I fear ruining you, how guilty I feel when I dream of you, how this last decade has been the happiest I’ve ever felt, if they knew I love you.

Crowley snaps out of his mind at the sudden clatter of the wine bottle against the table, and turns to a rather stricken Aziraphale. 

“Angel?” He asks. He must have delved too deep in his thoughts to notice what had shaken Aziraphale. 

“Say it again.”

Crowley blinks once, then twice, before attempting, “What?”

“Clear your head.” Aziraphale stands, and Crowley takes an instinctive step back.

“I’d rather prefer to drink myself into a stupor, actually. Easier to forget this all, come mornin’.”

“Clear your head.” Aziraphale repeats, more sternly, “and say it again, so I know your words are true.”

His words? He hadn’t spoken, had he? Crowley was certain he’d kept his intrusive thoughts silent. He must have. He should have. What could he have said-

His breath catches. 

“Oh.” Fuck. “Aziraphale, I’m-“

“Crowley, please.”

Perhaps it’s the desperation in his voice, or the way his chest feels ready to burst, but Crowley listens. By the time the wine bottle is half-full again, the room sets itself straight and gravity is pressing its whole weight upon him. 

Aziraphale hasn’t moved, his eyes fixated intently where Crowley stands. And Crowley, to his credit, doesn’t hiss or fumble over his words when he works up the courage to hold Aziraphale’s gaze. “I care for Adam, too. You know this. I don’t want to leave him alone when his fate comes. But if you ask me to choose between him and you, I...Aziraphale, I’m choosing you.” And it’s selfish, but it’s the truth. Something shifts; it’s a microexpression, the quirk of his lips downturning or his brows furrowing deeper. Crowley pushes on: “I don’t want to run from this, but I am more afraid of losing you than I am this world. I’ve loved you for far longer.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relax, the tension he’s been keeping releasing between them, instead. 

“How long?” He asks. 

The question brings him pause, and he flips through six thousand years worth of screenshots to locate where it all began. The answer makes him smile, despite himself. 

“Honestly?”

“Yes, dear.”

“The garden.”

A strangled noise escapes Aziraphale when he gasps. “Eden?” He says. “But, that doesn’t make sense. I would’ve felt it.”

“You have.” His confessions come easy, now. It’s better to release it all at once. What does he have to lose, after all? “The type of love you can’t abandon. You just admitted so.”

Aziraphale breaks their connection at that point, staring off someplace above Crowley’s right shoulder. He’s thinking. No, he’s deciding something. Crowley doesn’t make any sudden moves, doesn’t attempt to ease the air between them nor close the gap. The ball is in Aziraphale’s court. Whatever he decides to do, Crowley knows will be the right choice. 

So it’s a surprise when Aziraphale steps forward rather than towards the door and says: “The church.”

Again, Crowley feels like he’s lacking the capacity for speech. 

“Your realization was Eden,” another step, cautious but firm, “I think mine was the church.”

“Yours.” Crowley feels as though he’s drunk again. He can feel the world on its axis, yet everything is disconnected from his body. His mind is reeling at the confession of an angel. The most dangerous kind he could make: I love you too. 

Aziraphale grounds him by taking Crowley’s head between his hands. “I’d been too scared to admit it to myself. But, I am of sound mind and body. And what I’m about to do is long overdue, I think.” 

And Crowley must be dreaming, that’s it. Because this is what an overactive imagination conjures to ease an aching heart. But Aziraphale’s voice is too gentle and raw for his subconscious to craft. 

And normally, when he dreams, he doesn’t feel when they kiss. He simply works through the motions, or wakes himself before it happens. And in his dreams, Aziraphale would have felt softer than he does now. 

The kiss is brief, no longer than a half second. If he wanted to, Crowley could freeze time as it stands. And part of him wants to, desperately. But that would prevent him from chasing after their second kiss, still chaste but this time long enough to savor. 

When they part, as Crowley and Aziraphale see it, they each have two options: step away, take a metaphorical breath, and pretend it never happened, or give into the temptation. They just aren’t sure which one to choose. Worse yet, they don’t know what the other will decide either. 

Crowley is the first to take the risk, to pull Aziraphale closer and hold them there. 

His action seems to make up Aziraphale’s mind, for he brushes his hands to intertwine them in his hair. 

“Crowley?” He carries an unspoken question in his name. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley answers. 

They fall into each other. 

They are a gentle unraveling. 

In this tiny house on an unsuspecting road in Tadfield, there are breathless admissions exchanged between choking moans and racing hearts which are kept safe within its walls. 

Tonight, Heaven and Hell are only words. 

~

Adam wakes before the sun that morning. 

Everyone in the house is still sound asleep when he rises from his and Jude’s bed and wanders down the hall to the living area. 

He can’t exactly explain why he’s awake so early, nor why he has the urge to go on a walk. A clock on the wall ticks just past five forty-two in the morning as Adam slips his shoes and jacket on, and clicks the door shut softly as he exits. 

He follows this urge to the woodland he knows better than his town, navigating winding roots and low-hanging branches with ease through the darkness. 

The world seems to be frozen when he reaches the Them’s hideout. He tests Wensleydale’s makeshift scales for a bit, then finds Brian’s crown and places it gingerly upon his head. It doesn’t feel quite right, this space being devoid of his friend’s laughter and games. But he doesn’t feel any desire to leave quite yet, so he settles on his throne and simply observes. 

He learns at what hour the birds begin their melodies, and when those songs return life to the forest. A lone owl makes itself known behind him as the sky begins to shift from a deep, star-spotted blue to a mixture of oranges and pink clouds. Angel would call the sight breathtaking, no doubt, and Dad would tease him for his sappy, romantic view of the world with his eyes steady on the horizon.

Adam distantly thinks he and the owl were one in the same, existing in this place at this time for reasons beyond them; perhaps, even a little disappointed that time didn’t wait for them to be ready for the new day. 

Adam sits and watches the sun dawn upon his eleventh birthday. 

In that far distance, a dog barks.

Chapter Text

Anathema wakes to distant barking. 

It’s six fifty-three in the morning, and the sun’s barely breaking through the blinds of her window as she hurriedly rises from bed and gathers what she needs for the day.

She’s slept in, you see. It’s Tuesday morning, and she needs to go hunting.

~

She’s wandered these woods several times a day since she arrived in Tadfield. When she’d read the fortune eight years ago, she didn’t expect the Anti-Christ to be in such a quaint little town, but she supposes it makes some sense. It’s quiet and uninteresting and the smallest dot on a map - a perfect hiding place.

She also didn’t expect it to take so long.

She’s reading over her book again, eyes skimming the paragraph that’s all but ingrained into her mind now: “Sum say It cometh in London Town, or New Yorke, butte they be Wronge, for the plase is Taddes Fild, Stong in hys powr, he cometh like a knight inne the fief, he divideth the worlde into 4 parteth, he bringeth the storme.”

The sun has finally crested over the horizon when she gets unexpected company: a young boy with lightly freckled cheeks and soft brown hair comes running up the trail she’d chosen to follow today, a small terrier dog yapping at his feet.

She believes he is running from the pup before his laughter reaches her ears. It’s a game of chase. He sees her the moment her eyes land upon him and he all but skids to a halt. This is a reaction Anathema is used to. She is dressed rather odd and she didn’t take the usual time out of her morning to get her unruly hair under control. She must appear some semblance of crazy the townsfolk undoubtedly view her to be. Despite his hesitant nature, Anathema smiles and lifts a hand to wave.

“Good morning!” She calls down the trail to him. 

“Good morning.” The boy returns before he tilts his head and calls back: “Are you a witch?” 

She blinks at his blunt question. “Your parents must encourage you to speak your mind.” She replies. He nods rather eagerly. It’s a little charming, for she can’t help but smile a bit wider. “I study the occult,” Anathema replies, closing the book gently and tucking it against her chest, “so, I suppose you could call me one.” The dog at the boy’s feet gets his attention with a bark, and she looks to the pup as well. It looks a little dirty but relatively healthy, wagging his tail with curiosity. “He’s cute,” She says, “is he yours?”

The boy smiles now. “Not yet.”

Anathema takes a few steps forward down the trail, taking a closer look at the boy before her. He’s no older than eleven if she had to guess, and besides the quizzical look he’d given her earlier there’s nothing odd about him. If anything, he’s unremarkable. 

Regardless, he still may know something she does not. She walks six paces before they’re within proper speaking distance, and she shifts her book in her arm again to offer a hand. “I’m Anathema.”

The boy eyes her with just a slight hint of suspicion before taking it. “I’m Adam.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adam.”

“My friends and me, we’re witch-hunters.” 

Anathema coughs to keep a giggle in the back of her throat. “Are you?”

“Yes, miss. And we take it very seriously.” Though the boy wears a stern expression, there’s a glint of mischievous humor in his eyes. 

“Do you think all witches are dangerous, Adam?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met a real witch before.” He pauses, giving Anathema a once over. “Can you prove it?” He continues, “That you’re a real witch?”

Anathema purses her lips together for a moment, then smiles and drops her hand. “I could read your future. Would that suffice?” 

Interest flashes over his expression and she turns on her heel with the assumption the boy will follow. Anathema hasn’t had many chances to show another child that her livelihood isn’t one to fear, but rather one to embrace. 

Maybe she can show him not all witches need to be burned at a stake. 

~

Her assumption was right, for Adam follows her all the way to the little house she’s settled in. The dog is yapping the whole way and she takes note that Adam doesn’t refer to the pup by any name when he speaks to it. 

As she goes to open the door for them, she finally asks: “Have you given him a name?”

The question must be one Adam hadn’t even considered because he pauses and looks to the terrier intently. The naming of one’s first pet is a sacred ritual, and the importance of this naming ceremony is grander than any other. 

Eventually, Adam seems to settle on an answer: “I like Dog.”

“Just Dog?”

“Just Dog. It’s easy to remember, don’t you think?” Dog, as he was just so eloquently named, perks his ears up in reply. 

“I think he agrees.” Anathema nods, before gesturing for Adam to enter the home. “Do you like tea?”

“A great deal.”

Anathema was admittedly glad to hear it, for she didn’t have another drink to offer the young boy if he’d said no. 

She makes two cups, and gingerly places Adam’s cup at the stool he carefully climbs onto. Dog sits obediently beside it, looking up with expectant and intelligent eyes. Adam takes the tea with a quiet thanks, and the two sit in calming silence for twelve seconds before Adam finally caves and eagerly asks: “Do you make magic?”

“I don’t create magic.” Anathema says, almost apologetically. “It’s more that I feel the magic that exists in the world and I use it when I need to.”

“Is that how you see the future?”

“I don’t see it.” She gently corrects, “I read it.”

“You read it?” Adam repeats, and Anathema swiftly leaves the room with a nod. When she returns, she has a box tucked under her arm which she places on the countertop before Adam. She lifts the lid and he peers at the stack of thin paper strips lined up inside. 

“With these,” she pats the side of the box, “This box has been in my family for generations. I can pull a fortune and it will tell me exactly what I need to know when I need to know it.”

“What if you pull the wrong one?”

“You won’t.” She smiles, “That’s the magic of intuition. You’ll never pull the wrong fortune. Whatever you pick, you were always meant to read.”

She pushes the box closer to him, a quiet encouragement for him to pick a slip. He flexes his fingers around the cup of tea before hesitantly reaching out and plucking a fortune from the center. Slowly, he turns the paper around. It reads:

“Though thy Hand doth move the Penne, the End was sett afore the Ink was wet. Do not tremble. The Stars have kept a Place for Thee, and shall smile when all is done.”

“I don’t get it.” Adam frowns. He holds the paper to Anathema, who takes it and reads the fortune again. 

“Neither do I, but it's not meant for me to understand. Are you a writer, Adam?” The boy shakes his head, and Anathema stifles a sigh as she returns the fortune to him. “Well, hold onto it. Maybe one day you will. I bet it’ll be the best story ever written.” Adam smiles a little at her compliment and accepts the fortune back. Anathema watches as he reads it again, face scrunched up as he tries to make sense of it again. “Can I ask you a question, Adam?” The boy looks up without raising his head, watching her through his bangs. “Do you still think I’m a dangerous witch?”

His eyes flick between the paper and Anathema, seemingly thinking it over. “I guess not. I don’t have time to do a witch hunt today, anyway.”

“Really?” She smiles and moves to flip the lid of the box closed. “Can I ask why?”

Adam pockets the paper and moves to hop off the stool. “It’s my birthday today. So, I should go home now. My dads will be wondering where I am.”

“I’ll walk with you.” She takes their cups and empties them at the sink. 

Adam is much more talkative on his walk home, rambling on about his friends and schoolwork. She asks a few times about his parents, but Adam keeps his answers short:

“What are your father’s jobs?”

“Angel stays home most of the time. But Dad’s a doctor.”

Anathema hums, carefully stepping out of the way of the small rocks Adam has been kicking at along their path. “Does he work at the clinic in town?”

“No,” Adam says, then pauses for a moment with another furrow of his brows. “I don’t know where he works. He has to leave town sometimes. I guess it’s a hospital in the city.”

Dog barks from further up the path, drawing Adam’s attention to the home becoming visible from over the hill. Anathema focuses on it too, and then asks: “Adam, is it alright if I ask you another question?” The boy merely shrugs, kicking a rock a few paces ahead of them. “Have you noticed anything strange over the past few years?”

“Strange? Strange how?”

“Has anyone strange visited or moved into Tadfield?”

Adam does seem to think about her question, but he ultimately comes to the conclusion of, “No. I mean, besides you.”

Anathema purses her lips. “Well, do you think you could do something for me, Adam?”

Adam takes two hops up to his porch steps, before spinning on his heel to face her. “Yeah?”

“Would you tell me if you notice anything strange? I’m trying to find someone and it’s very important I find him as soon as possible.”

Adam narrows his eyes and her request. “Who?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he’s very clever. If he knows I’m searching for him, he may try to hide.”

“Is he a witch, too?”

Anathema can’t help but laugh. “Not quite. But he is very dangerous. If you notice anyone like that, just come find me, alright?”

Adam looks her up then down, but before he can answer her question the door opens from behind him. Anathema looks to who she assumes to be Adam’s father and instinctively shields her eyes.

His aura is brutally, undeniably bright.

~

Ten minutes earlier, the Crowley-Fell household stirred to life. 

Crowley doesn’t believe in miracles. Miracles are lies, stories angels whisper into human ears when they cast too grandiose of a blessing. But when he opens his eyes to singing birds and a world remarkably intact for what should be its final day, he almost considers it a miracle. 

Then he turns onto his side, and the view before him really must be a miracle. 

He doesn’t know if Aziraphale is truly asleep or if he’s merely mimicking the motions. If he is, the gentle rise and fall of his chest is very convincing. His hair is still a mess, shirt hopelessly wrinkled and undone. He’s beautiful, all soft and light. Crowley doesn’t stop committing the sight to memory even when Aziraphale’s eyes open and meet his. He’s glad he doesn’t look away - the smile that he’s given is more than holy. While it may feel more appropriate for Crowley to make some comment about the night before or the trouble they’ve undoubtedly beckoned, Aziraphale beats him to it:

“...The world hasn’t ended.” The angel shifts to sit up, and Crowley realizes they found rest on the floor last night. At least the carpet was comfortable enough. He doesn’t make a motion to rise with Aziraphale, instead taking the moment to watch his feeble attempts to smooth out his shirt.

“Day isn’t over yet.” He unhelpfully reminds.

“Optimistic as always, love.” The pet name doesn’t settle with guilt, this time. Rather feeling like a boulder rests upon his chest, the name flutters to a gentle rest between his ribcage. He feels like he’s floating up until Aziraphale stills the hands working on his shirt buttons and murmurs: “Something’s changed.”

With a frown, Crowley moves to stand, adjusting his own attire to a more appropriate state. “I’d hope so. Unless last night was just a, ‘oh, the world’s ending, let’s have some fun -’”

“No.” Aziraphale is firm, yet gentle, with his response. He approaches Crowley immediately, taking his face into his hands. “Not that. Of course, not that. We can discuss this…later. But listen.”

Crowley does, straining his ears against the morning canaries outside their window and to the world beyond. And he does hear it, almost drowned out by the wind. Barking.

“It’s here.” He says, and Aziraphale’s cheeks appear far more pale as he drops his hands to his sides.

“Where’s Adam?”

“I assume still at the Young’s.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, Aziraphale looks as prim and proper as always, even as he sets for the door with uncharacteristic panicked paces. “We need to find him, now.”

He swings the front door open without a thought - only to pause half-way through the threshold. Adam turns away from a strange woman at the base of their porch and smiles. A small dog sits at his feet, obedient and not at all how Aziraphale pictured a hellhound to be.

“Hi Angel!” Adam sounds chipper as always, and Aziraphale steps forward onto the porch. 

“Adam,” He says, eyes darting to the woman again, “I was just coming to pick you up. Who’s this?”

She takes the initiative, stepping forward with a hand extended. “I’m Anathema.” 

“The American?”

“She’s a witch, but she’s a good one!” Adam cups a hand around his mouth in an attempt to share this well-known secret, before he pops around Aziraphale and steps into their home - new pup in tow.

The woman blinks, taken aback both by Aziraphale’s words and Adam’s abrupt departure, but puts up another smile. “The accent gives me away, doesn’t it?”

“Just a bit.” He says, before finally taking her hand, “I’m Adam’s father, Azira.”

“That’s unusual.” She replies. And as someone with experience in unusual names, she means what she says. 

“It’s biblical.”

“Ah,” She says, eyes darting towards the couch and the space Adam’s made for him and Dog. He’s speaking to the other man who wears a pair of red-shaded glasses. Though they’re set firm against the bridge of his nose, she gets the unwavering feeling his eyes are on her. Compared to Azira’s aura, as blindly bright as it was when she first laid eyes upon him, the other man’s is as deep and dark as his glasses. 

Impossibly bright and unnervingly dark; by all known laws of the universe, these two energies oppose and would pull against each other. Yet here they stood, sharing a home, a life, and a son. Both of Adam’s parents had overwhelmingly powerful auras. That’s not what’s odd to Anathema. 

No, what’s odd is her realization that Adam didn’t have an aura at all. 

“Is something the matter?” Azira asks upon seeing her perplexed expression, and Anathema shakes her head as if snapping out a daze. 

“Sorry. Lots on my mind - it’s a busy day!”

“For you and I, both.” Adam’s other father chimes in as he makes room for himself at the doors threshold. “Are we to blame you for the pup tracking mud throughout the home?”

“Crowley, be nice.” Azira says. 

“Ah,” Anathema starts, before clearing her throat, “no, suffice to say. Dog was already with Adam when we met.”

“Dog?” Crowley repeats, arching a brow. 

“That’s what his name is. According to Adam.”

“And Dog just…found our son this morning?” He pushes. 

“According to Adam, they found each other in the woods.”

Aziraphale nods. “Well, that’s very helpful. Thank you for bringing him home, Anathema. We really should get ready for his -“

“His birthday, of course.” She nods her head again and peaks over Aziraphale’s shoulder to call to Adam, “It was nice to meet you!” Before the mismatched trio says their goodbyes and she departs. 

“She’s odd.” Crowley says, watching her go. 

“She’s a witch,” Aziraphale helpfully states, “and we have no room to judge.”

The topic of Dog and what to do with him is approached at breakfast, of which Adam eats two plates of eggs, toast, and sausage. 

“You’re hungry.” Crowley comments on it, all the while idly bumping his knee against Aziraphale’s under the table. “Must have had quite the morning adventure.”

“I woke up early,” Adam shrugs a little, failing to subtly toss a piece of sausage Dog’s way. Aziraphale watches the hound with anticipation and concern - waiting for when the small, spotted pup will transform into the six feet of black matted fur and blood stained teeth he’s heard so much about. “I wanted to go on a walk, and I found Dog all alone in the woods.” Adam stops halfway through an egg bite to ask, “I can keep him, right?”

Worried, Aziraphale gives Crowley an unsure glance. Hellhounds and the means of how to care for them were not his forte. 

Crowley chooses his next words carefully: “Depends. Why did you name him Dog?”

Adam gives pause at the question, focusing on the design of the tablecloth before he answers. “That’s what I want him to be. Just a dog. It’s easy to remember.”

Almost abruptly, Crowley rises from the table. “Angel and I will discuss it. Wait here.”

Aziraphale rises from the table to follow after he presses a quick kiss to the top of Adam’s head. Adam leans into it, as he always does. More of Aziraphale’s anxiety dissipates as he walks into the hall; he still acts like their son, for now.

“That isn’t exactly what I expected a hellhound to be.” He whispers only when he and Crowley are within proper distance.

“Because it’s no hellhound,” Crowley replies, lines of worry creasing his forehead, “I’ve seen those beasts. I’ve fed them before - they don’t look or behave like that.”

“So what does that mean? Is it the wrong dog?”

“A hellhound becomes its name.” Crowley explains, “Name it Throatripper, it will rip out throats. Name it Hellraiser, it will raise Hell on command.”

“And he named it Dog.”

“So it’s a dog.”

“Just a dog?”

“So it would seem.”

Aziraphale glances back towards the kitchen, where Adam is attempting to teach Dog to sit in order to get another sausage-reward. The animal picks up on the trick quickly, sitting and tilting its head expectantly. “So, if it’s just a dog, there’s no harm?”

“So far,” Crowley steps closer to Aziraphale, watching Adam from over the angel’s shoulder. “They’re already attached to each other, the bond’s been made. I don’t think we could separate them if we wanted.”

Aziraphale stifles a sigh and nods. When they approach the table, Adam’s full attention is given. Crowley, with hands on his hips and as neutral an expression as he can muster, says: “You can keep Dog, if you agree to clean up after it.” The second half of the ultimatum is drowned out rather effectively by Adam’s chorus of thank you, thank you, thank you’s.

The rest of the morning is spent getting Adam cleaned up and ready to set plans with the Young’s, who are a mess of anxiety when they arrive, having not known where Adam disappeared off to that morning. 

While parents ease each other’s worries, the two boys who - at this moment - share the title of Anti-Christ play in the yard with a hellhound that is both fulfilling and abandoning its purpose. 

It’s an interesting sight to holy and fiendish eyes watching from afar. 

The hellhound does not stay with the Young boy. The child with curly autumn-brown hair runs around the outside of the home, and the hound follows his heels even when the blonde-haired child calls its name. The dog is loyal; Hastur raised it himself. It wouldn’t follow anyone but its master. 

The bitter frown on the Duke’s face sours only further when Crowley exits the home, to call the boys back in. Lying snake, he wants to spit. If he weren’t on a time-limit, he’d slink down the hill and turn the home to ash. Unfortunately, he has a meeting to attend.

As the demon up the hill fades into the shadows towards the sound of four revving motorcycle engines, two archangels watch from the wooded forests behind the home.

~

A complete list of the Universe, it’s truths, and it’s inevitabilities are as follows: 

1. Everything came from nothing. 
2. The Universe made itself. 
3. The Universe is a perfectionist and is constantly expanding, unraveling, and rebuilding itself. 
4. That end is always exactly as it’s meant to be, when it’s meant to be.
5. The second star in the Big Dipper’s constellation is exactly 2.06 inches off from where it was meant to be placed.
6. The apocalypse will always choose four horsemen: War, Famine, Pollution, and Death.

Hastur hasn’t had the pleasure to meet any of the horsemen before today. Despite this fact, he has been given the task of directing them towards the Anti-Christ and kicking off the Apocalypse. 

According to Hell’s records, that Apocalypse was supposed to start at eleven o’clock that morning.

At eleven fifteen, Tadfield’s peaceful town is disrupted by the revving engines of four color-coded motorcycles. 

Hastur waits until they find him a few clicks off the main road, away from any prying eyes or nosy listeners. “You lot are late.”

“The apocalypse is never late.” Pollution states, as they step off the bike and remove the helmet which had concealed their face from unknowing bystanders. 

Famine, already having propped his stand up, gets to the point. “Where is the child?”

“A question that should have a less confusing answer.” Hastur spits at the ground. “Record says the child’s name is Jude Young.”

“But?” War presses, an eager smile twisting bright red lips as she leans forward.

“But evidence shows the contrary. The hellhound has chosen a boy we didn’t know existed. Young seems to know him.”

“An accomplice?” War asks.

“A friend.”

War laughs, bold and mocking. 

“The humans hid him well.” Death says, hollow-toned. Hastur had nearly forgotten them, too. The voice briefly draws his attention, but the glance leaves an uneasy feeling stirring in Hastur’s chest. He looks away.

“It would seem humans had little to do with this mixup. It was one of our own who concocted this pathetic scheme.”

“Pathetic as it is, it fooled you.” Famine levels Hastur with a glare that makes the demon drop his gaze. Famine looks to his fellow horsemen, and they seem to come to an agreement. “We’ll clean up your mess, before we start ours.” Pollution nods.

“Run home and tell your Boss what’s happened.” War says, “We’ll go have a chat with this…friend.”

Despite being given direct orders, Hastur does not run home immediately. There are some loose ends he needs to take care of; and he hopes he can get some help from the two shadows he’s developed since arriving in this pathetic town. 

Trying to send a message to an Angel was a great risk for any of Hell’s agents. Hastur wasn’t even sure they would listen and come to meet him in the field just outside the town’s limits. 

Archangel Uriel is someone he’s not seen since the war. Michael is someone he’d only heard of. Neither of them seem to be the all-powerful beings of good and light written in books. Looks can be deceiving. 

The angels stop far enough away that they won’t have to yell to hear each other, but a whisper won’t reach the other’s ears. 

“I should smite you where you stand.” Uriel speaks first. 

“And yet, you haven’t.”

“Your claim was intriguing,” Michael says, “Speak quickly.”

“It seems one of ours and one of yours have been fornicating.”

Uriel narrows their eyes. “A bold claim. And a dangerous one.”

“I’ve seen it,” Hastur says, “With my own eyes. They were with the boys.”

“Was your order not to watch over the child?” Michael asks. 

Hastur scowls. “It was to deliver him, not raise him. Crowley has decided to do this his own way. And he’s dragged in one of yours to do it. Odd fellow, that one.”

“We’ve had our own suspicions for a while,” Uriel says, “Aziraphale has always been the most…indulgent of us.”

“And Crowley’s always been a snake.”

Uriel resists the urge to roll their eyes. “What is your proposal, then? We have nothing but your word.”

“Our words are all demons have. We both know what must come to pass. I will not be outsmarted by the likes of Crowley. And how would it look if Heaven fell because one of your own bent the rules in his favor?”

“Heaven will never fall.”

Hastur groans. “Only the apocalypse will determine that. But it must come, and we can make it so. If we work together.”

Uriel scoffs. “Like I’d make a deal with you.”

With a grin, Hastur holds out a hand. “Desperate times. The enemy of my enemy. I get the Anti-Christ, and you get to be rid of the pains in both our necks.”

With a scowl, Uriel takes Hastur’s hand. 

~

Adam and Jude, both freshly eleven and thus on the precipice of Great and Terrible Wisdom (mostly about which new bikes to ask for and where to hide things from grown-ups), spend the morning doing what all children on the edge of cosmic destiny ought to do: absolutely nothing of consequence.

They play with Dog and make plans for a sleepover that will never happen, in a world that is quietly getting ready to end. But no one tells children that sort of thing. They wouldn’t believe it. They’d ask if it meant they still had to brush their teeth.

After asking their parents and giving the universal mumbling of Yes, we’ll be back before the party, the two of them run into the woods, which swallows them whole and doesn’t ask too many questions. They find their secret spot, the one they keep hidden even from their other friends. What is usually a large fortress or a battlefield is, for now, just a clearing cobbled together out of sticks and leaves and whatever strange magic binds childhood together. It isn’t impressive. But it’s still theirs.

“We could have everyone over tonight,” Jude says, chucking a stick into the air with theatrical flair. “At your house this time.”

Dog runs after the stick with the joy of a creature who couldn’t care less who said what, as long as something got thrown.

“Why mine?” Adam asks, not looking up. He’s fiddling with the grass like it’s personally offended him. Dog returns and drops the stick in his lap, looking proud.

“Because you left mine last night,” Jude says, in the pointed tone of someone who’s rehearsed this in front of the mirror no less than three times that morning. “You can’t run away from your own house, can you?”

“I didn’t run away," Adam says, his voice tinging on the border of annoyance. He's felt strange for the last hour, in truth. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't think he could put into words what it feels like. He doesn't think anyone would understand, even if he could.

“You walked away, then. Still left.”

Adam throws the stick again. Hard. Harder than he means to. It snaps against a distant tree trunk before vanishing into the brush. Dog charges in after it without hesitation.

“So what if I did?” Adam says, voice tight. “I came back.”

Jude blinks. The woods grow quieter now, as if they’re listening.

“I could’ve gone with you,” He argues. “You could’ve woke me up. We could’ve found Dog together.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to,” Adam snaps, bolting to his feet. “If I wanted you to come, I would’ve asked. Dog’s not ours — he’s mine. And sometimes I want to do things alone, Jude.”

That hurts. Jude feels it in the chest - like someone’s gone and taken a sharp rock and twisted it between his ribs. “Alone? Since when? We always do things together.”

Adam scoffs. “Maybe that should change.”

Jude doesn’t answer. He can’t. His stomach starts doing this slow-motion tumble, like it’s trying to warn him. Something’s happening here. Something they can’t take back.

Adam turns and starts walking toward where Dog disappeared into the woods.

“Where are you going?” Jude calls after him.

“I’m walking away,” Adam says, not turning around. “To find my dog.”

“What should I do?”

“I don’t know,” Adam says, and this time it doesn’t just hurt — it guts him. “I don’t care.”

He ducks under a low branch and vanishes into the green.

Jude waits. One minute. Then another. Then a few more, because sometimes people come back if you just wait long enough. If you stay still enough. If you hope hard enough.

He counts. Five minutes and fifteen seconds (which is forever when you’re eleven, and your best friend has walked away from you).

Then he turns and walks slowly back, across the invisible border where their fantastical sanctuary becomes simple backyards, and finds, to his surprise, that he isn’t alone.

Not even a little bit.

Four adults stand waiting for him, dressed in bright colors that beckon him closer. Against his own will, he follows.

The woman in red speaks first, her smile as wide as his mother’s and nowhere near as warm. “Hello, Jude,” She says.

“Hello,” He says, then, “How do you know my name?”

“We’re friends of your parents,” She says. “They invited us over to celebrate your birthday.”

“Oh,” Jude says.

“You don’t seem excited,” Pollution says. “The day not turning out the way you hoped?”

Jude, were he of sound mind, would know better than to speak to these strangers or answer their questions. Their influence is the sort of thing even an adult would struggle to resist. Jude stands no chance.

“I was,” He admits softly. “I think. My friend and I got into a fight. I upset him - or something has. I don’t know why he’s acting this way.”

The woman in red steps forward, War kneeling down to meet him eye to eye. “And your friend, what’s his name?”

For a moment, Jude feels afraid. Something inside him screams not to answer. But his tongue betrays him.

“Adam.”

War leans in closer. “And where is Adam now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try again.”

Famine places a hand on War’s shoulder. She backs away two steps and Famine takes her place, towering over the eleven year old.

“You seem like a smart young man,” He says. “So we’ll let you in on a secret. Adam has a very important job. And we want to help him fulfill it. You want what’s best for your friend, right?”

Jude considers this. Slowly, he nods.

“You could help him,” Famine continues, “by helping us.”

Jude purses his lips, shaking fingers tugging at loose threads on his sleeve. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”

“Of course not,” Pollution says. “We just want to talk to him.”

With a small inhale, Jude tells the Four Horsemen where their leader is.

And they ride out toward a small forest clearing near the airstrip, where the future waits.

~

At eleven-forty in the morning, on the last day of the world, Aziraphale gets a bad feeling. 

He has had a bad feeling since he woke, but this one is particularly bad. He’s been waiting, you see, for a sign from Heaven that he’s been found out and that everything he’s built and protected will be torn from him. 

No such sign comes. Yet, he still gets a very horrible feeling. He leaves the safety of the living room with the intention of going to the town’s square. Crowley had drifted off that way earlier, after they allowed Adam to go off and play with Jude. 

They had no signs that the Anti-Christ was aware of who he was, nor that his powers would come to be, no reasons to hover as intensely as they wanted. And Aziraphale hadn’t in him to not let his son play on his birthday. The angel now had a horrible sense of regret. The door swings open before Aziraphale reaches the knob, and he is suddenly crowded in by Crowley. Even behind the dark tint of his glasses, Aziraphale can see his panic. 

“What happened?” He asks. 

“They’re here,” Crowley says, and there are so many they’s to choose from that Aziraphale thinks of Uriel and Michael rather than the horsemen. 

“How do you know?”

“I saw their bikes,” Crowley makes a break for the living room, scanning the area for something - someone - before he turns back around to Aziraphale, “they must’ve arrived less than an hour ago.”

“Bikes?” Azriaphale’s hands are starting to fiddle with the bottom of his vest, the sleeves of his shirt, trying to do anything except tremble, “I wasn’t aware they had bikes, now.”

“Haven't always been bikes, used to be horses but -“ Crowley stops moving, and pulls his glasses down his face so that his eyes, and confusion, become visible. “Who are you talking about, because I feel like it’s different from mine.”

Aziraphale swallows. That’s right, he’s still not told Crowley of the Archangel’s visit yesterday. 

He should tell him. No, he needs to tell him. Should this fall apart today, Aziraphale wants there to be no secrets buried in the rubble.

He opens his mouth, then hesitates. Crowley is unmoving, his concern growing only more palpable as the seconds pass. 

“Crowley,” He begins, but then -

A doorbell breaks the silence. Their doorbell. Aziraphale wonders if it’s the weight and pressure of all of Heaven suddenly coming down upon him or simple anxiety pinning him to the floor, because it’s Crowley who ends up having to step aside and answer it. As though he were a frightened child, he moves just enough to peer past the threshold, watching Crowley at the door.

He sees the demon’s body language change - his shoulders tightening, posture going rigid. Something’s wrong.

When he hears Deidre's voice, undoubtedly panicked, Aziraphale finally finds it within himself to move.

Their neighbor stands on their doorsteps, her blue eyes wide and full of fear. At her side, clutching onto her pant leg and face tear-stained, is Jude.

“We tried searching the woods already,” She finishes telling Crowley, one hand gently patting down Jude’s hair in an effort to comfort her son. Aziraphale is hit with a sinking, sudden gut wretch - where is his?

“What’s happened?” He asks, which spurs Jude into another bout of hitched-breathes and fresh tears.

“I’m sorry,” Jude sobs, “I was upset. Dog ran off and Adam told me he wants to be alone now. I thought he’d come back. They went to find him -“

“They?” Everything sounds muffled, even his own voice sounds far away, “Who, Jude?”

“The adults. There were four of them, they were asking about Adam.”

“What did they look like?” Crowley is keeping his voice surprisingly leveled and calm in spite of the horrific situation playing out in front of them. Even when Jude describes four people dressed in the colors of the apocalypse, who were all too eager to know where Adam was. Aziraphale knows he is visibly shaking, but even when he feels Deidre's hand upon his arm and hears her reassuring don’t worry, we’ll find him, a deep, deep part of him knows it’s not fear rattling him.

This must be rage.

~

Adam walks deeper into the woods, away from Jude, away from the clearing, away from whatever that conversation was. He doesn’t have the words for it. Eleven is too young to explain the kinds of silences that feel permanent.

That gnawing feeling hasn't left either; in fact, he thinks it's gotten worse after snapping at his friend. Dog trails ahead of him, nose to the ground with his ears pinned back, as if he too senses that something is coming. The birds are quiet. The leaves don’t rustle.

Adam feels it in his bones - something heavy, like the way the air gets just before a storm, or when adults start whispering in the next room. The something’s-wrong feeling. 

He steps into another clearing, this one unfamiliar. There are four people waiting there, and they do not look like people who get lost in the woods. One of them - a woman in a red coat, red hair, red everything - smiles at him. It's the kind of smile one might see on a fox, right before it pounces on a chicken. 

“Hello, Adam,” She says.

Adam pauses. “How d’you know my name?”

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Says another, wearing a dark, expensive looking suit. “We’re old friends. You just don’t remember us.”

Dog growls, low and uncertain. Adam reaches down and puts a hand on his head. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Adam says, trying to sound firm. “And you lot are…very strange.”

This gets a laugh from the one in white. “You don’t know how right you are.”

“We’re not strangers,” The woman in red says again. “We’re family. Of a sort. You’re special, Adam. You’ve always known that, haven’t you?”

He stops himself from nodding. "I’m...just a kid.”

“You’re not just anything,” The last of them speaks, tall and dark and far too still. “You’re the End and the Beginning. You’re the boy who gets to decide how the story ends.”

Adam opens his mouth. Then, he closes it. Because something inside him shudders at that - a part of him that isn’t quite eleven, and isn’t quite human, and has been slowly waking up since the day he was born.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He mutters.

“That’s alright,” Says War, stepping forward. “You don’t have to know everything yet. You just have to come with us.”

“Why?”

“To see,” Famine says. “To remember.”

“To become who you were always meant to be,” Pollution adds.

Adam looks around at the woods which suddenly feel too small, like a costume that doesn’t fit anymore. He thinks of Jude, of their fight, of the way everything seemed to tilt in the last hour. The world has changed shape, and he hasn’t caught up.

“Will it help?” He asks quietly.

War tilts her head. “What?”

“Going with you. Will it help me figure out what’s wrong?”

The Horsemen exchange glances.

“Yes,” Says Death at last. “You’ll understand everything. Come with us.”

Adam nods, once. And despite Dog’s low whine, despite the cold twist in his stomach, despite the very loud voice in the very back of his mind screaming that this is a bad idea, he follows them.

Because something is broken inside him, and he wants to know what it is.

They walk toward the airstrip. Toward fate. Toward the end of the world.

~

The town, to its credit, did what all small towns do when something terrible happens, which is to say: panic in a highly organized and deeply inefficient manner. There were emergency flyers, emergency hotlines, emergency casseroles, and a distinct shortage of anyone actually staying calm. The Young's were out in full force despite Aziraphale’s repeated assurances that really, it wasn’t their fault.

If anyone was to blame, it was himself. He never should have let Adam leave the home, not today. He should have kept him hidden, should have kept him within safe distance. Regardless of how many times he reassured the Young's, they insisted. So he and Crowley let them work; if anything, it would keep the town busy and out of their way.

They, instead, wander to the small home that had been abandoned not that long ago and knock four times until the American answers the door.

“Ah,” She greets with a smile. One which swiftly falls when she notes their grim expressions. “What’s happened?”

“You spoke to Adam this morning,” Crowley says through gritting teeth, “we need to know why.”

“He’s missing,” Aziraphale quickly adds, “if he’d given you any indication of where he might have gone, we’re hoping you can share it.”

The young woman’s mouth falls open, sympathy written in her features and no doubt woven into the words she was about to say. But, she hesitates, and seems to backtrack as a thought comes to mind. With a quick motion of her hand, she ushers them inside and to her kitchen, pushing a box towards the couple from where it had been placed on her table that morning. 

“I read fortunes. I offered to read Adam’s this morning,” She admits. “I don’t know why. I just had an inclination, a feeling.”

“What did it say?”

“I can’t remember exactly,” She admits, “but it had to do with…writing? A pen?”

Crowley blinks. “A pen. That isn’t a lot to go off of.”

The box remains between them on the table, its polished surface catching the light leaking in from the window. Outside, the wind is picking up speed. Anathema watches the pair silently arguing with their own thoughts, flickering between panic and purpose.

“I could do a reading,” She says at last.

Crowley glances at her over his glasses. “We don’t really have time for -”

“Not for Adam,” She interrupts. “For you.”

That makes Aziraphale pause, his hand hovering mid-gesture. “Me?”

“You’re connected to him,” Anathema says, gently now, knowing she is speaking to someone on the verge of breaking. “You’re his parents. If there’s a thread that leads to him, it might show up through you.”

Aziraphale hesitates. But, something about the way she says it, the knowing look in her eyes, makes him sit down. “All right,” He says softly. “Just…quickly, if you please.”

Anathema nods, already opening the box. Inside were dozens of tiny slips of paper, hand-folded and worn soft at the edges. She pulls one and hands it to Aziraphale. He unfolds it carefully. The handwriting was precise and unmistakably that of Agnes Nutter:

“To He whom did Raise the Child Unbidden: Though thy Hand be gentle and thy Love true, the Page was turn’d ere ever thou took up the Book. Be not Afraid. When the Day is full and the Skie darkened, seek ye the Field where Birds flew but fly no More. There the Boy will reckon the burden of worlds.”

Lightning flashes outside.

Anathema’s voice is low now: “Where birds flew…there’s an old airstrip nearby, isn’t there? I saw it when I drove in.”

Aziraphale’s hands are gripping the edges of the paper so tightly, Crowley worries he will tear it in two. “Why would he go there? He doesn’t know,” He says, almost to himself, before twisting in his chair to look at Crowley. “He doesn’t know what he is. He has no reason.”

Something seems to click for Anathema, who takes in the couple’s divine auras again and all at once comes to an understanding. She was sent here to stop the Anti-Christ and save the world. With any luck, that’s just what she did. “He’s going to find out. Someone may be guiding him,” Anathema says softly.

Crowley is already moving toward the door. “Then we’re leaving. Now.”

Aziraphale stands, as does Anathema. But she hesitates and lingers. “I’m sorry,” She says, because it’s the only thing anyone knows to say when tragedy tears families apart. “I had assumptions about what he’d be like. But after meeting him, I…he’s just a child.”

“He’s our child,” Crowley says, turning back. “And we’re going to make bloody sure he stays one.”

Outside, the storm begins in earnest. Rain lashes the windows in sharp, slanted sheets. Somewhere, far away but steadily coming closer, something ancient is waking. Something that’s waited years for this hour, for this boy.

Aziraphale places one trembling hand over the paper slip, as if he could shield it from what was coming.

“We won’t let them take him,” He says.

And with that, they vanish into the storm. Two immortals, soaked to the seams with worry, chasing after the boy who wasn’t supposed to be the boy - but was. A boy who might still, if they got there in time, be saved from what everyone said he had to become.

~

The weather had turned properly apocalyptic. Rain hammering down in furious sheets, wind whipping around them. It was the kind of weather that said, Yes, the world is ending. Get used to it.

Crowley and Aziraphale hurried across the tarmac of the abandoned airstrip, hearts thrumming with a mixture of dread and determination. Their son was here somewhere, and they weren’t about to let cosmic forces decide his fate.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

You see, they had foolishly thought they were alone. The trap was a masterpiece of holy and infernal collaboration. The barrier itself was invisible yet unmistakable; especially when they ran head-first into it. It thrummed softly under their feet, like a heartbeat out of sync with the world around them. Not quite magic, not quite machinery, but something older and far more precise - a weaving of divine will and demonic cunning.

Around the perimeter, ancient sigils glimmered faintly, etched into the cracked concrete and barely visible to mortal eyes, blazing with power to those who knew where to look. Crowley’s fingers twitched, reaching out to push at the wall, but he was met with a biting cold resistance. Aziraphale raised a trembling hand to the air, murmuring a prayer that dissolved on contact. Above them, the wind seemed to carry whispers - that of angelic hymns and low laughter tangled together into a cruel duet. A reminder that Heaven and Hell were both watching, both waiting, both ensuring this moment would not be disturbed.

Uriel and Hastur had chosen their ground carefully. Not just any place, but a crossroads where ley lines converged. It was a trap designed not to kill, but to contain - to ensure that Crowley and Aziraphale could only bear witness, helpless, as the final act unfolded. And stepping out of the storm as if they own it (and maybe they do), came the Angel and demon; Heaven’s fire and Hell’s smoke, partners in the business of ending everything.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Uriel says. “Not quite the reunion I’d imagined.”

Crowley laughs, bitter, as he takes a protective step in front of Aziraphale. Uriel takes immediate notice of the way his arm lifts just so , as if ready to shield the angel. “If you wanted to meet us, you could’ve sent a letter. Less theatrical.”

Uriel didn’t bother dignifying the demon’s jab with a response. Their eyes lock on Aziraphale. “You, angel, have been far too indulgent.”

“And you,” Hastur drawls, gesturing toward Crowley with the kind of grin that usually preceded a biblical disaster, “have mistakenly thought yourself more clever than even the King of Hell. Again.”

Aziraphale squares his shoulders, his attention not leaving Uriel. “You will not use him like some pawn in your game.”

Uriel doesn’t blink. “This was written long before you chose sides,” They say. “The board is set. The pieces know their places.”

Aziraphale is already shaking his head, curls damp from the rain and voice rising with the wind. “Then the players are wrong!” Lightning cracks across the sky; oddly, it feels like an agreement. He steps forward, past Crowley’s outstretched hand, past the edge of reason and into something bolder - something that no longer cares for prophecy and plans, ineffable or otherwise. “You will not touch my son!"

Beside him, Crowley lets out a breath that might have been a curse or a prayer.

“ Your son?” Hastur laughs. “I know angels are optimistic by nature, but that’s a stretch. Nothing about this boy is yours.”

“We raised him," Crowley’s voice is steady, and brimming with the confidence a demon would have needed to convince the first of mankind to sin. "Taught him how to ride a bike and cheat on his homework. How to be kind when no one was watching. I made packed lunches, for Hell’s sake! He’s not your omen. He’s our boy.”

Uriel’s gaze flicks toward the far edge of the airfield where Adam stands, surrounded by the Four Horsemen. The boy’s expression is conflicted — the weight of destiny pressing in on him as they feed lies and promises that would entice the Anti-Christ to fulfill his duty.

“Save your speeches,” Hastur says, stepping closer as shadows gather at his heels. “The End is coming regardless of who raised him. He is what he was meant to be.”

“Well see, that’s the trouble with your side and theirs.” Crowley nods toward Uriel, “You’re so busy squabbling over what people are supposed to be, you never stop and consider who they might have chosen to become.”

Uriel’s wings shimmer into view, unfurling just enough to remind everyone that Heaven did, in fact, have a flair for spectacle. They thrummed with restrained power - the kind that suggested smiting was not off the table. “Choice,” Uriel says, with the calm certainty of someone who’s never needed to make a difficult one, “was never part of the prophecy. It’s fated.”

“Fate is just your excuse for cruelty," Aziraphale says.

That makes Uriel pause. Not long. Just long enough.

The sky doesn't split with lightning. That would’ve been too obvious. Instead, it stills - like the atmosphere itself has sucked in a breath it wasn’t quite sure what to do with. Across the field, Adam shifts on his heels, as though sensing the eyes on him.

“You think this ends with a heartwarming speech?” Hastur hisses, taking a dangerously close step towards the circle of runes. The trap shimmered faintly around them now, the lines glowing red-gold. “You can’t reach him. You’re not meant to. That’s the point!"

Crowley’s eyes scan the airfield perimeter. He can see Adam - close enough to shout to, not close enough to save. And Crowley could feel it: the hesitation in the air around him, the way the wind stuttered as if the weather wasn’t sure whose side it was on. 

Aziraphale steps forward until he is just shy of the trap’s edge. “I was there the night he came into this world. I held him before he even opened his eyes. I sang to him when he was afraid of the dark. I chose him. And that means something.”

Uriel’s expression didn’t waver, but the light around them pulsed, hesitant.

“Oh, spare me,” Hastur scoffs. “You think love is going to change anything?”

Crowley looks down at the trap lines, then back up at the boy they’d raised. “No,” He says. “But it’s a damn reason to fight for.”

Clearly having heard enough, Hastur lunges forward, shadows clawing up from the cracked earth. But, before he could deliver a blow, Uriel is on him, swift and sudden, with wings unfurling wide in a blaze of radiant power. Uriel’s smite is precise and brutal, a collision of raw, heavenly might against the choking shadows Hastur wielded. The dark tendrils writhed and snapped apart as if burned by an unseen flame or seeped in holy water, slipping from Hastur’s grasp like smoke. The demon staggers, eyes flashing with a mixture of rage and surprise as he begins to burn. Uriel plants themself firmly between him and Aziraphale and Crowley - who are equally as stunned but smart enough not to question a miracle when it crashes into their lives.

The trap pulsed; the barrier wavering. "Go," Uriel tells them, "if you make me regret this, I will make your smiting so much worse."

Crowley’s fingers find Aziraphale’s, gripping tightly. And without hesitation he yanks them forward, breaking through the failing boundary. They continue forward towards the airstrip, breathless, hearts pounding - and there was Adam. Their Adam, caught in the terrible, thrilling tangle of what he was and what he might still be. His eyes find theirs, wide and searching, and for a moment something like hope flickers across his face.

But the Four Horsemen continue their slow orbit around Adam, their words becoming more clear over the howling storm as they get closer. War moves first, her boots crunching across the tarmac like the drums at the start of a battle: “Adam, this world’s gone soft. It’s crumbling. You can feel it, can’t you? It needs correcting. And you - you are that correction.”

Famine follows, all hollow cheeks and elegant ruin. His voice is smooth, practiced: “You could reshape everything. Strip it down. Start fresh. Make the world exactly as you wish.”

Death says nothing at first, merely inclining his head as the air around him briefly goes cold. When he does speak, it’s barely above a whisper, yet it reaches Adam clearer than any thunderclap: “Endings are only beginnings,” He says. “Yours is not punishment. It’s purpose.”

And then Pollution, drifting forward like an oil slick in human form: “You’re not alone, Adam,” They say, smiling. “We’re with you. We’ve always been with you. Who else do you need?”

Adam’s gaze flickers between their dark promises and the two figures who had raised him - who had loved him through every confusing step. Something ancient and stubborn stirs in his chest. Slowly, he steps back. “No.”

Pollution blinks, their smile faltering. “No?” They repeat, as if the word was some rare dialect they hadn’t heard in centuries.

Adam takes another step back. Just one. But it was the kind of step that sends cracks through prophecy.

“No,” He repeats, louder now. “I’m not going with you. I don’t care if I’m supposed to.”

War narrows her eyes, her sword hand twitching. “You are the end, Adam. You don’t get to opt out of it like a school project.”

“Maybe I want to,” Adam says, frowning. “Maybe I get to pick who I am. Even if no one else thinks I can.”

Death tilts his head - not in anger, but in something like curiosity. “This is…unusual.”

Adam looks past them, to the two figures stumbling closer across the airstrip, the wind clawing at their coats and both of them looking as though they’d walk through Heaven and Hell twice over just to reach him. He smiles at them, and for just a second, he didn’t look like the Anti-Christ.

He looks like a boy.

A boy with a dog and two hopelessly worried dads.

“Who else do I need?” Adam echoes, looking back toward the Horsemen. “I’ve already got who I need.”

The sky doesn't crack. The Earth doesn't open up. No trumpets blow.

Instead, there was just a terrible, gaping silence . Then it filled - not with light, or sound, or even fire.

But with Him.

Shadows coil and gather, twisting upward into a towering figure that seemed to swallow the surrounding light as he stepped into the space between Aziraphale, Crowley, and Adam.

The Devil had arrived. And he was smiling. 

The Devil is someone who had been smiling for centuries, and has never once meant it. He simply has an image to uphold. His suit is immaculate, in the way that volcanic glass is immaculate - dark, gleaming, and forged under pressure. And when he looks at Adam, the world seems to slow.

“Hello, son,” He says. He sounds like everything Adam has ever feared tucked inside a lullaby. Adam doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Crowley freezes mid-step. Aziraphale’s breath hitches. “No,” The angel whispers, “Not now. Not him.”

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” the Devil says, glancing sideways at the angel and the demon. “You’ve both had your fun. Woodland adventures, bedtime tales and bike rides. And now,” He turns back to Adam, arms spreading wide, “the story ends, as all things do.”

Adam’s voice is small, but it remarkably doesn’t waver. “You’re...not my dad.”

The Devil gives a laugh - short, bright, and entirely humorless. “I’m not your father? I’m the reason you exist at all. And you are not a boy. You are something that pretended to be a boy. For eleven years, this,” He waves toward Aziraphale and Crowley, “was an illusion. They were merely trying to delay the inevitable.”

The Four Horsemen stand still now, watching with the vaguely polite interest of people who had seen plenty of ends, but not quite this end. Even War, who has never been much for subtlety, has gone quiet.

The Devil steps forward. “You were made for this, Adam,” He says, “You’re not a boy. Not really. You are what waits at the edge of every map when the dragons have finished burning the rest. This isn’t cruelty. It isn’t wickedness. It’s just…the job.”

Behind him, Crowley takes one step forward. It was all he dared. “He’s got a choice,” Crowley says.

The Devil pauses, looking back to the man he had so foolishly offered the title of Duke to, not so long ago. He smiles like a parent humoring a toddler. “Choice?” He repeats, “You lost the right to lecture me on choice, dear Serpent, the moment you went skulking off to play house with a Principality. Behind my back, no less. You took my child - my child - and instead of ushering in the fall of Man, you made him cookies and read him bedtime stories. You twisted the harbinger of the apocalypse into a soft, foolish boy! And now you think love gets to undo everything we’ve been building towards.”

Aziraphale steps forward, hands shaking but no less determined. “Crowley did what he thought was right. We both did. And we don’t regret a moment of it.”

The Devil snaps his gaze to Aziraphale, eyes glinting. “Ah, the angel,” He says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The prim, polite fool who thinks a bit of kindness will stop what was set in motion long before you two got involved. You took a weapon and turned him into a boy who says ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’” He leans in, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You coddled a cosmic disaster and now expect me to sit back politely and applaud? 'Well done, I give in.'”

Aziraphale’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains steady. “Well, here we are. He hasn’t ended the world yet. The choice still stands.”

“It’s not really a choice, you see. He is the End - no more, no less. Even if he holds off today, all he’s doing is buying time. The clock will always be ticking”

Adam’s eyes flick between them - the two who had tucked him in at night, who’d told him stories about the stars, who’d laughed at his terrible jokes and told him the world might be mad but it was still worth loving. Then he looks back at the Devil, brow furrowed as a sudden idea takes hold.

If I can remake the world, the thought bloomed quietly in his mind, then maybe I don’t have to be the End.

It was a thought too big for an eleven year old, and yet it was there - dangling in the air, fragile and bright.

Crowley sees it too. His eyes narrow, flicking from Adam’s uncertain gaze to the Devil. Even Dog, ever practical, whimpers softly and nudges closer. A rare moment of panic tightens Crowley’s jaw. “Adam, wait -!”

Aziraphale takes a surprised step back. He watches as Crowley does something Aziraphale would have never expected, never seen: without a word, he stretches out a hand, and around them, the chaos - the rumbling of thunder and crackling of the storm, the towering figure of the Devil himself, even the looming figures of the Four Horsemen - it all stops. Time snaps taut and frozen.

Only Crowley, Aziraphale, Dog and Adam remain free. Crowley moves quickly, rushing over to pull Adam into a tight embrace. The boy’s frame trembles in Crowley’s arms, clinging to his father as if he was the last real, solid thing in the world. Aziraphale sinks to his knees beside them, breath caught somewhere between awe, hope, and fear. His fingers gently brush a stray lock of hair from Adam’s forehead. “We’re here, love,” Aziraphale whispers.

Adam pulls back, eyes now red and brimming with tears, and his eyes flick from Crowley’s steady, unreadable gaze to Aziraphale’s hopeful one. His lips part slightly, and in a broken voice he asks: “They won’t leave us alone, will they?”

Crowley’s hand tightens on Adam’s shoulder, as if trying to hold on to something - someone - slipping through his fingers. “No,” He answers honestly, “they won’t.”

Adam’s voice shook now, “If I disappeared, they won’t have anything to fight over.”

Crowley flinches as if he’d been struck, but he doesn't reject the idea. Because somewhere in that fragile, terrible thought was a terrible kind of hope: that the only way to save the world was to write Adam out of it. Aziraphale simply stops breathing.

He was eleven. Eleven and a bit. Still too young to have learned how to tie a proper tie, still just barely old enough to cross the street without holding someone’s hand. And yet here he was, standing at the edge of existence, deciding the fate of the world with the sort of weary conviction reserved for old men and badly written prophets.

Adam, the boy who was supposed to be the End, was choosing to become nothing at all.

And that - Aziraphale thought - well, that didn’t feel like an ending at all. It felt like theft. Like someone tearing pages out of a book right before the last chapter. It felt like failure.

“No,” The angel whispers, his voice cracking as he reaches out to cup Adam’s face in his hands. “No, no, no. That’s not what’s going to happen. I’ll find another way.”

Adam didn’t answer right away. His jaw was set in that way children do when they’ve made up their minds and know the grown-ups won’t understand. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” He says, looking down at his shoes - all scuffed and muddy from earlier in the day, when all he had to worry about was what time his friends were coming over for cake. “I don’t want anyone else to hurt each other because of me. I…want to apologize to Jude. I don’t think I can now.”

He looks up then, and there is something old and knowing in his eyes. Something tired. It didn’t belong to an eleven year old boy. It didn’t belong to their eleven year old boy. Aziraphale can feel the way his son is shaking. Despite his brave face, Adam is terrified. And terrified, Adam still declares: “But I can fix this.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Aziraphale’s vision is blurring, but he won’t cry. He can’t cry. No, angels can’t cry. “It’s my job to protect you!”

“You’ve done that.” Adam says, “You both have. I know what I need to do.” He looks to Crowley who - despite the fact that he had frozen the world for this long, aching minute - remains deathly still. “A pencil is just a tool. I can change the ending.” Crowley’s breath catches in his throat. He places his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. Not to steady himself, but to ground his Angel. He knows what’s coming before it leaves Adam’s lips: “You need to let me go.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, the surge of his emotions - of confusion, anger, fear - suffocates his lungs like floodwater. He’s too young, there’s so much we haven’t done, he’s my boy, he’s too vulnerable.  

He’s too vulnerable. He’s too human. And that’s just it; Adam’s nearly human, and Aziraphale needs to allow him to be. There is set determination in the boy’s eyes, and behind that, fear and hope. Fear he will fail, hope they will be with him every step of the way. And damn Heaven or Hell, they will be. 

He pulls Adam to his chest, and intends to keep him there for as long as time allows; as far as he knows, this will be the last he holds Adam as he is. He feels more than hears Crowley shifting closer, keeping an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders and embracing Adam with the other. Dog wiggles his way between them, settling between Adam’s chest and Aziraphale’s lap. They stay there for a while, wrapped up in each other. Aziraphale can almost pretend they aren’t on the cusp of the end of the world. 

Instead, they’re home in Tadfield, where Adam is safe. 

He celebrates his twelfth birthday with a new bike which has a Dog-sized basket on the front; his sixteenth is spent learning to drive in the Bentley; he learns to waltz in the living room an hour before a dance at seventeen; hangs his graduation photos on the wall when he’s eighteen; helps carry boxes from his room to a moving truck in the front lawn at nineteen. 

He leaves them on his own terms and when they’re ready. A somewhat-fallen angel, exiled demon, and a child who was inexplicably, yet undoubtedly human. One big, happy family indeed. 

In another world, they all make it out of here and walk back to their domestic life. 

That ending is not on this path. 

“We need to trust him, angel.” This Crowley says, words spoken too quiet for the rest of the world.

“We’re with you.” This Aziraphale’s voice shakes, but still he does not cry, “For good or bad, we’re with you.”

It’s Adam who takes the first step back, prying himself from their protection. Aziraphale is not ready to say goodbye; though he doesn’t think he’d ever be. So he doesn’t. 

Crowley’s grip on time falters and sputters out, and the world resumes as the pair watch their son approach the Devil with more bravery than either of them could ever muster.

“Oh? Has my son finally found reason?” The Devil asks, and Adam plants his feet on shaking ground.

“I’m not your son. And I will not end the world.”

The Devil laughs, “You think because you declare it so, that makes it true?”

Adam stands as tall and as brave as an eleven year old can: “Yes. I declare it so.”

There's a rumble to Adam's voice, deep and undoubtedly powerful. Aziraphale makes the motion to rise from his knees, but Crowley’s arms remain firm around him. “He knows what he’s doing, love.” The demon’s lips mutter these words to Aziraphale’s temple as their son looks over his shoulder at them.

“Take care of Dog for me.” Adam says, with Aziraphale’s smile and Crowley’s defiant tone. 

And then there is light; it is warm and blinding and terrifying, the sight of a world becoming anew. 

Aziraphale tries to keep his eyes on Adam for as long as he can, but he and Crowley must shield their eyes eventually. When the world dims to warm sunlight, they are no longer in an airport on the outskirts of Tadfield. They aren’t in Tadfield at all.

An open field stretches out before them, a lake large enough for ducks and geese to share at its center. A small, homey log cabin at its edge. There is a garden blossoming behind the home, with space enough for two.

As Aziraphale and Crowley come to stand on this new, fresh solid ground, the residents of Tadfield wake up on the morning of Jude Young’s eleventh birthday not realizing they’ve done so once before. But on this day, no horsemen come riding through their quiet town with plans to rip it open from above and below. There are no demons on the streets, no angels at the airport. 

A witch up the road wakes and doesn’t remember how she got to England. She’ll be on her way back home to America before the end of the day, not realizing a couple fortunes are missing from her box. 

Heaven and Hell are each missing an agent, but neither seems to remember who they were. It’s questionable if the names which once belonged to their empty files ever existed to begin with. God doesn’t make mistakes, so it must have been a Principality or lower Demon who misplaced these files. They are thrown out and burned, respectively, and Heaven and Hell go on with their eternities, not having realized Doomsday’s due-date has now come to pass with no Earth-shattering resolution.

The world does not remember the little family that lived in an inconspicuous, two-story home in Tadfield. The only two who retain the memories of one Adam Crowley-Fell now exist on a plot of land that did not exist before they were brought there.

Aziraphale doesn’t accept whatever reality they’ve ended up in. 

“We need to find a way back.” Is the first thing Aziraphale says. “There has to be a way, Crowley, there must -“

“Angel!” Crowley grabs hold of Aziraphale’s shoulders before dropping to grab his hands instead. Then, softer, he says: “Aziraphale, you know he’s not there anymore. We’re not there anymore.”

“We need to try -“

“We did. We did all we could. Our jobs are done.”

Aziraphale’s grip tightens around Crowley’s hands, but when he begins to shake and fall to his knees Crowley is there to catch him. Angels do not cry, but Aziraphale sobs openly into the demons’ chest. Neither lingers on what that must mean. Crowley just holds Aziraphale against him as he grieves. There will be time for him to mourn after, and his will be a silent grief.

He knows Aziraphale will be there to hold him up after.

Chapter Text

It ends, as it began, with a garden. 

God made Eden for Her children; Adam made another for His parents.

It’s a beautiful garden, nearly as gorgeous as the one Aziraphale wandered when the world was new. He waits until the thought doesn’t make more tears well in his eyes to traverse this one with more caution, stepping over every root and touching the petals with only the very tips of his fingers. His and Crowley’s favorite flowers are amongst these, vibrant and healthy and already loved.

Whoever planted them did so with care. Aziraphale feels like the act was an apologetic one.

A goodbye.

The world does not end in a spectacular explosion nor in a climactic battle of good versus evil. 

Aziraphale and Crowley aren’t even sure for certain the world has ended. As far as they’re concerned, the life they’d built has.

They try to build anew. 

~

There’s something no one mentions about the loss of a child. How you mourn the what-ifs. 

What if I’d been there sooner. What if I’d saved him. What if I loved him more. Was stronger. Faster. Braver. Better. 

Nor how they evolve. 

What if he was still here. What if he’d done sports. What if he’d gone to university. What if he’d gotten married. What if he’d grown old. What if he’d lived. 

How you, eventually, run out of hypotheticals and are left with reality. 

He isn’t here. He won’t play sports. He won’t go to university, or get married, or be a dad, or die old. You weren’t fast enough, you weren’t strong enough. And that’s okay. He was brave enough, he was strong enough, he was loved enough. 

He had the blessing of choice. 

He wanted you to be happy. 

You chose to live on for him. 

How brave of you. 

~

The angel of the Eastern Gate sits in the garden of a little cottage by a little lake. A hellhound sleeps in his lap, all the hell since loved out, and he looks up to the cloudless, star-filled sky above his head. He watches the way they glimmer, waiting. He’s not sure for what. 

The serpent of Eden joins him, two cups of tea in his hands. He offers one to the angel, who gratefully takes it before resting his head against the serpent’s shoulder and returning to the sky.

“Think he’s up there, somewhere?” The serpent asks though he knows the answer is no. He helped create that sky, after all. He’d know all the places for a child to hide. He’s already checked. 

“Wherever he is,” the angel replies, “I just hope he isn’t giving Lilith a hard time.”

The serpent of Eden smiles. “If we raised him right,” He says, “he’s giving her hell.”

The angel laughs a sorrowful laugh, tears burning the corners of his eyes. They don’t fall as often anymore, but he doesn’t fight them when they come. 

They’re allowed to be vulnerable here, to be human; no longer bound by angels and demons and written words.

It ends, as it began, with love.